


A refrain is a repeated phrase.

by gingerteaandsympathy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Hermione Granger-centric, M/M, but everyone in this is also definitely stupid, crack treated seriously (sort of), fred sleeps with basically everyone, is it bad bisexual rep if i'm bisexual and approximately this stupid?, sex positivity, was not britpicked and probably should've been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: She felt like an intruder; shewasan intruder. She had done, in essence, all that an intruder would do. Disrupted their evening, affixing a third wheel to their happy bicycle. And still, despite that, she felt buoyed by Angelina's easy conversation, and by Fred's easier smile.Hermione actually found—by the time they'd gotten to the common room and parted ways, with a chuck of the chin from Fred and a hug from Angelina—she was almostgladthe two troublemakers had decided to un-subtly snog in an alcove.But, of course, she only felt that way thefirsttime.In which Hermione catches a couple snogging, and things deteriorate from there.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 327
Kudos: 201





	1. The first time.

**Author's Note:**

> new year, new opportunities to write self-indulgent fremione fic. hope you guys enjoy tagging along!
> 
> most of this is already written, so updates should be fairly regular. and as always, please forgive any mistakes; i self-edit.

Barefoot, she padded through the stone corridors, the icy pavers leaching all the warmth in her body right out through her toes. Her occasional sniffles echoed and rebounded, alerting anyone who might care to notice that a weepy young girl was making her way from the Great Hall.

Of course, no one _did_ care to notice. That was just the point, wasn't it? She was practically invisible—a brain on legs—and she'd hoped for _one night_ of being otherwise. Being seen, and appreciated, and maybe even wanted. Was that really so unbelievable?

She gave a mocking little snuffle. Of _course_ it was. 

She was Hermione Granger; she wasn't the sort of girl boys noticed. Even Viktor Krum seemed to have sought her company precisely _because_ she didn't seek his. The famous Seeker just wanted someone to quietly study with and then, at the ball, to quietly dance with. He was nice, but largely less interested in what she _was,_ so much as what she wasn't—namely, obsessed with him.

Why, she wondered, did nobody seem to see her as a real, proper _girl?_

As she trudged forward, her thoughts a miasmic haze around her, Hermione met with a tapestry—not a particularly old one, but well-placed. It hid a small alcove where students often lingered after curfew, getting up to—well, things that students got up to. She hadn't the imagination to presume. 

Or, she did, but she pretended she didn’t.

Hermione would've passed it by that night, completely unaware of any mischief—only she heard a muffled giggle and another, more textured sort of noise. A low hum. Fabric rustling. Hands moving.

She rolled her eyes. _Of course._ It was a ball, and there had to be plenty of students with their blood up after an evening of dancing in close quarters. She felt a sudden rush of envy—and then an ensuing rush of anger that she could feel such a petty emotion in response to what was, in all likelihood, a bit of very mediocre petting behind a dusty, moth-eaten tapestry.

She’d already embarrassed herself by crying over a boy tonight. Longing to experience whatever was happening to make those noises was really a step beyond, and _not_ one she was willing to take. 

Still oscillating between irritation and humiliation, Hermione paused in the middle of the hall, slid her heels back on to her aching feet, and took a few very loud, clattering steps. All sounds of coupling came to a stop, and the hall was silent but for her petulant shoes, stomping in place.

It was shallow, perhaps, but she was satisfied at the sound.

"Be more subtle next time," she admonished the tapestry, and though her voice was still waterlogged, she sounded admirably calm. Without waiting for a reply, she turned back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower and walked on, leaving the faint hiss of whispered communication in her wake.

She'd only made it a few steps when she heard another subtle shifting of fabric and the wobbly flop of the tapestry falling back into place. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Angelina Johnson patting down her velvet gown, trailed by none other than Fred Weasley, who seemed to be having some trouble straightening his dress robes. He kept fiddling with his collar. She wanted to roll her eyes again, but resisted.

"Headed back to the common room?" Angelina asked—with surprising kindness and ease, too, given the fact that Hermione had disrupted her snogging mere seconds ago. But perhaps Hermione's weepy breakdown at the dance was public knowledge and the girl pitied her. 

_Or,_ she chided herself, _maybe Angelina's just a nice person._

Nicer than _she_ was, anyway. What had she stood to gain by breaking them up except a fleeting moment of indulgence? She chewed her bottom lip as she nodded her reply.

Glancing back and forth between the couple, who looked understandably flushed, she asked, "You?"

Fred chuckled, the sound drawing her gaze. His smirk wasn't bitter—in fact, it had a sort of lazy, pleased quality, like he'd _enjoyed_ the interruption. Her eyes narrowed. 

"Honestly, Fred," she began, " _Quietus_ is a second-year charm. Surely you've learned it by now."

"That I have." And then, disinclined to elaborate, he slung his arm around Angelina's shoulders and began walking. Hermione would have to jog to get ahead or slow to trail awkwardly behind, and so settled on the lesser evil of keeping pace with the couple, her arms crossed over her chest and her feet once more aching as they all made their way to the common room together. 

"My brother's a git, you know," Fred said, apropos of nothing.

Hermione scuffed her shoe against the stone. She didn't want to talk about it—she didn't want to even _think_ about it. Instead, she said, "I know." And she _did_ know, even if it was hard to remember sometimes. He was a git, but he was her friend, too.

"Good,” he said. “So long as you know." When she glanced up, Fred was looking down at her over Angelina's head, and she couldn't hold his gaze. She couldn't bear to see the pity he probably felt for _poor, pathetic Granger._

"Your dress is gorgeous." Angelina, it seemed, was determined to be sweet tonight, which only made Hermione feel worse for her sullenness. "The colour really suits you."

"Thanks," Hermione replied weakly. "So does yours."

"Yeah, Ange, purple's really your colour." Fred shifted his arm around Angelina, his hand unintentionally bumping Hermione's shoulder. "You should go out for the Prides. I bet you'd look lush in the uniform."

But the other girl just laughed and wound her free arm through Hermione's, tugging her closer despite Fred's errant hand. Their hips bumped, and Hermione wondered if this was what it was like to have a proper girlfriend. Someone you walked through corridors with, limbs linked in a visible sign of companionship.

It felt… _nice._

"He's a flatterer," Angelina said firmly, calling Hermione's attention back. "Don't listen to a word he says." But she said it fondly, too—like she found Fred's fast-talking ways endearing. She'd have to, Hermione assumed, to be snogging him behind a tapestry. 

The smile the older girl shot up at Fred was warm and wide.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hermione replied faintly. 

She felt like an intruder; she _was_ an intruder. She had done, in essence, all that an intruder would do. Disrupted their evening, affixing a third wheel to their happy bicycle. And still, despite that, she felt buoyed by Angelina's easy conversation, and by Fred's easier smile. 

Hermione actually found—by the time they'd gotten to the common room and parted ways, with a chuck of the chin from Fred and a hug from Angelina—she was almost _glad_ the two troublemakers had decided to un-subtly snog in an alcove.

But, of course, she only felt that way the _first_ time.


	2. The second time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pattern is starting to develop, and Hermione isn't a fan.

She’d never been particularly fond of Quidditch.

There was something about it. Maybe the heights, or the competition, or the looming immanence of death or maiming—yes, that last was probably it.

Anyway, it took all the fun out of matches for her.

But, she had to admit, she did sort of fancy the Quidditch kits.

The breeches and tall boots. The robes flapping in the wind. It all reminded her of equestrians, or the regency heroes on television. The BBC sort of heroes, with tight trousers and tighter cravats, and shoes that were—if historically inaccurate—quite dashing.

Actually, Hermione often ruminated, the BBC had gotten quite a _lot_ wrong back in the eighties, and she certainly hoped they’d be a bit more historically accurate going forward. But after years of sitting with her mum and watching _Pride and Prejudice_ over the holidays, she could easily identify the similarities that had come to inform her taste: the elegant lines— the bold flash of a riding coat, so similar to house colours—and, of course, the breeches.

Viktor in particular made the uniform look quite dashing.

But it wasn’t Viktor she was thinking of when she turned the corner to the changing rooms. In fact, she was thinking that if Harry didn’t hurry up and change, they’d never get their eighteen inches on The Safe and Unsafe Applications of the Scouring Charm done before Monday. They’d already put it off because of Gryffindor’s rigorous practice schedule, and then because of the match. She’d almost begun to think, rather shamefully, that she might be better off if she went to the library without him and collected the necessary texts ahead of time.

Hermione was rather absorbed by these thoughts when she suddenly realized that she’d walked in on something.

Or, not strictly “in,” because what was occurring was _definitely_ occurring against the exterior wall, right out where anyone could see.

Where _she_ could see.

Two bodies were unmistakably intertwined, and it took only a scant moment of observation to identify them as Fred and Angelina. She hadn’t been able to _see_ them during their snogging session after the Yule Ball, but it seemed that they’d carried some things over into the new year. Particularly their enthusiasm. And the noises.

Angelina had the much taller Beater pushed up against the wall, his head tugged down so she could make a thorough examination of his mouth. Hermione wasn't an expert—hardly even a novice—but he seemed to be enjoying the experience. The way Angelina's fingers raked through his hair and _pulled_ told Hermione very clearly that the Chaser was the aggressor in this particular situation, and Fred didn’t seem to mind.

And, to her surprise and embarrassment, Angelina also had elected to go a step beyond mere snogging: her leg was thrown up over Fred’s hip, like he was a broom she intended to mount. Her breeches—which, Hermione noted, Angelina pulled off _frustratingly_ well—stretched tightly around her raised thigh, which Fred was eagerly supporting with his free hand.

There was a certain friction that they seemed to be seeking out, based on the bucking and twisting of Angelina’s hips, and Hermione almost wondered if they wouldn’t be better off in the reverse—if _he_ had _her_ up against the wall— _wouldn't it be easier to keep her leg up that way?_ —but then, _of course_ she'd be a perfectionist, even about _this_ —when she snapped out of her distracted haze.

Now wasn’t the time to be optimizing their snogging experience. _Or_ tucking it away for future reference.

She cleared her throat.

Angelina was the one to look up, her lips wide and shiny in their perfect “o” shape. Her ponytail was a bit skewed; her charms had apparently been sufficient for the match, but couldn’t stand up to Fred Weasley’s fingers.

Fred, who was trying to extricate himself from her, cleared his throat and furtively tugged his robes closed.

“You’ve got the damndest timing, Granger, you know?” he said, rather indolently, though he sounded out of breath. Same as the first time, he didn’t seem terribly bothered by the interruption. Like the experience of snogging was improved by the presence of a witness. His familiar, smug smirk made itself known immediately, and she felt herself start to blush.

He probably thought she was _stalking_ him.

She had to make it clear that she wasn’t. “Have you seen Harry?”

“Been a bit busy, actually,” Fred snarked, only to receive an elbow in the ribs from Angelina. The older girl didn’t look _embarrassed,_ per se, but she did seem a bit… flustered. She shifted awkwardly in her boots, which were just like Fred’s, obviously, except smaller. Hermione wondered if it wasn’t strange to snog someone who was dressed _just_ like you. Did it make limb identification more difficult? Or was that sort of thing less important when you were engaged in such rigorous—

“He left with the others,” Angelina supplied, shooting Fred a short and knowing glare. “Went to Hogsmeade, yeah? For a celebratory drink, after the match. George dragged him off a while ago.”

For a moment, Hermione could only blink. “Oh.” _But we were supposed to meet and study together,_ she didn’t say, knowing how pathetic it would sound. She was keenly aware of the awkward silence which was descending over the three of them. Fred’s head tilted, observing her in his usual, Freddish way.

It was obvious that she’d been forgotten by Harry—equally so that she was interrupting _again,_ that she wasn’t wanted here—

_Or anywhere else, apparently,_ the little voice in her head unhelpfully supplied.

“Right.” She tried to perk up, forced herself to appear unbothered in the face of their pitying looks. “Well, sorry to interrupt, I’ll let you—”

“No trouble,” Fred cheerfully interjected, his expression transforming into casual politeness. “We were just about to walk back up. Come with us?” He said it with such nonchalance that she could _almost_ forget that he was lying. They’d just been in the middle of a cavity search that was _decidedly_ the beginning of something and not the end.

_Gods,_ she thought miserably. _This is just awful._ They probably thought she was completely tragic.

She shook her head, curls swinging wildly about her face. “No,” she rushed out, “no, that’s not—anyway, I should go.” She turned so quickly that she nearly lost her footing.

“I could be wrong,” Angelina called after her. “Maybe he went—er, to the library?”

Hermione sighed. She hated—positively _loathed_ —could not _abide_ being pitied. And it was worse, somehow, from Angelina. She was so… so _cool,_ and so kind to everyone, and they were _just_ starting to get to know each other. The older girl's sympathetic tone somehow stung almost as badly as Harry forgetting about her.

And if he’d forgotten, she could deduce that Ron likely had, too. They were probably at the Three Broomsticks right now, going over every Quidditch play in excruciating detail.

The sort of attention to detail, she reflected with some bitterness, that they should really be applying to their studies.

But their absence meant she’d be working on her own, again. It also meant that neither of them would have essays to turn in the next morning. And that she’d have to hear about it for the next week, in all likelihood. Again.

Which was fine.

All _fine._

She set her shoulders. “Alright,” she called back, not looking at them. “Thanks, Ange. I’ll look there.”

She didn’t want to see their faces. She only wanted to leave as quickly as possible, and then do her absolute best to ensure that this sort of thing never happened again. Because twice was two times too many for them to catch her like this, alone and wandering and probably looking wretched. For her to catch them like _that,_ caught up in something that was outside of her realm.

She would _not_ repeat this experience.

With steel in her spine, Hermione walked the whole way to the library where, of course, Harry and Ron were not. And she proceeded to spend the evening revising her already-complete essay, for the third time.

Alone.


	3. The time in the Restricted Section.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To quote our cranky heroine: "This is getting ridiculous."

"This is getting ridiculous," Hermione announced, standing on her toes to peek over Fred’s shoulder.

It was mostly a ploy to avoid looking at his obviously swollen lips and exceptionally mussed hair, which he wore like badges of honor. She was beginning to wonder if he intentionally played up his own untidiness just to make it obvious to the world what he’d been up to.

But, strangely, there was no Angelina following. "Did you—is she still back there?"

Fred shifted to fill her vision again. "No, Ms. Nosy, she isn't." He ran a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. Her fingers _itched_ to reach up and fix it for him, but the _last_ thing her dignity could take was cleaning him up after an escapade that she had been, once again, forced to witness.

And then she couldn't have anyway—because he was quite intentionally turning her around and pushing her forward with a firm hand between her shoulder blades.

The _nerve_ of him! Like _she_ was the one not supposed to be here!

Which, in the most technical sense, was true. There was a reason it was called the Restricted Section, after all. Though the name seemed to be a bit of a misnomer these days. Hermione had managed to bump into Fred and Angelina _three times_ this month, always among the old stacks, surrounded by the faint hissing of arcane texts and the smell of old parchment.

It seemed that anyone with half a brain could sneak in, even during daylight hours.

She, of course, had been looking for a book on enchanted botany to help Harry with his final task, which would _presumably_ involve the massive maze being grown on the grounds. She'd only taken to the Restricted Section after exhausting her un-Restricted options. Because this was, after all, a _library_.

At least her reason for being there was somewhat academic, rather than purely hedonistic.

But her luck was apparently _profoundly_ poor; instead of the perfect text, the book to answer all her questions and solve all of her—read: Harry's—problems, she'd been met, yet again, with the unmistakable sight of Fred Weasley mid-snog.

Alarmingly, she'd come to recognise it after the first few occasions. He had _tells,_ so to speak. His back had been hunched in just that sort of way, indicating that there was something between him and the bookshelves. Someone. And he'd been making that _noise_ again—like a hum, but lower. More rumbly, a sound that lived in the chest.

An odd thing to stick with her, but there it was.

She'd been so irked by the noise that she'd instantly cried out, "Honestly! _Again?!_ " Which was enough to jolt the wizard into action: he'd whirled on her, arm fanning out to cover his co-conspirator, who lurked against the bookshelves.

His eyes had widened and then immediately narrowed. And then he’d said the most _unbelievable_ thing.

"Give a man some warning, Granger!"

"Oh, _really?_ " Propping her fists on her hips, she’d settled in for an argument. The other times, she'd scuttled right down the aisle and out of sight—but _this_ was just absurd. She hissed, "I should give _you_ warning—in the _library?_ How would I go about doing that, d'you think? Leave a note in a book, maybe? But, no, then you'd actually have to _read_ something."

Fred honestly looked a little taken aback. "Bloody hell, you're in fine form today." He shifted a little, and Hermione suddenly remembered that there was a third person involved—however silently—in this conversation. Which was odd.

Angelina was usually the one to speak up first when Hermione showed up; she had a sense of humour about it, and usually dispelled any tension between the disapproving younger girl and the troublemaking twin with her usual determination and class. Hermione frowned.

"You can bollock me all you like later, but—give us a second, yeah?"

She'd hesitated then. Why was he blocking her view? What sort of a condition was Angelina _in?_ Her eyes dropped to the floor, as if she could divine an answer based on her view of the girl's shoes. And then she huffed.

Why did she even _care?_

Angelina knew who she was taking up with. She whinged about Fred’s proclivity for snogging in semi-public places often enough. And still, she went with it, smiling all the time. If he _would_ get her all disheveled in the middle of the library—well, that was really _their_ issue, wasn’t it?

_Not_ hers.

That settled it. "Fine," Hermione snapped. And then she'd stomped off, fully intending to wander back into the un-Restricted part of the library and ignore Fred Weasley and his ludicrous libido.

But he'd caught up with her barely a minute later, still fussing with his robes—like he'd run right off to catch up with her and left Angelina back there, which made _no_ sense.

"No, Ms. Nosy, she isn't.” He met her pointed query with a smirk. "Not that it's any of your business."

"That's not very gentlemanly of you," Hermione sniffed. "Leaving her to wander off on her own after you've had your way."

"I haven't 'had my way.' _Merlin_. What are you, my maiden aunt?" He rolled his eyes, and then ran a hand through his hair again, which made him look so thoroughly rumpled that she felt she had no choice—she pushed up to the tips of her toes and reached up to fix his hair. "What—"

"Stand still," she commanded. "You look entirely too shagged to be seen with me."

He had to hunch a little, but she finally worked his part over to the proper side, leaving him looking much more normal. As she dropped her hand away, she forced herself not to notice how soft his hair was. Or how he held her eyes as she dropped back to her heels.

"That's better."

" _Thanks,_ " he teased. "Gods forbid someone thinks I’m snogging the Golden Girl of Gryffindor. It might ruin my saintly reputation."

His voice sounded a little harder than she thought it had any right to, and she glared at him with all her might.

"Actually, I was just thinking of how _Angelina_ might feel." And it was the truth—they'd become closer lately, probably bonded by their mutual embarrassment over this strange, shared Fred-related secret, and she hated to think of unintentionally starting a rumour that might damage their tenuous friendship. She looked up at Fred worriedly. "That _was_ Angelina, wasn't it?"

This time, the smile he tossed her way was _decidedly_ amused. "You really are quite nosy."

"It wasn't, then." Her voice came out flat.

"Much as Ange would be flattered by your concern," said Fred, "she and I aren't like that—not anymore."

Hermione's eyes went wide. That was certainly news to her. He and the Gryffindor Chaser had certainly _seemed_ close enough the last time she'd caught them out together—which was only about a week ago, in the common room. And they had very much been “together” in the… well, _usual_ sense.

Come to think of it, though—considering how often they'd been together before—that _was_ a bit of an unusual gap. Not seeing them going at it for a week was about as unlikely as, say, catching Harry and Ron studying.

Glancing up at him, she tried to think of something polite—and leading—to say, but he beat her to it.

"Twin hijinks," he explained. He opened the heavy door to the library and gestured her through. "It's a long story. But she and George are much better suited."

Hermione's jaw dropped at the implication—the very _idea_ that the twins were simply interchangeable! Had they really allowed a prank to go _this_ far? How ridiculously dehumanising!

Of course, _she_ sometimes got Fred and George mixed up—nearly everyone did—but she hadn't been _snogging_ either of them. And it happened less now that she was so acquainted with Fred and his… proclivities.

The young witch felt a sudden, burning need to give Angelina a piece of her mind, friend or no. She simply couldn’t _treat_ them that way.

But once again, Fred beat her to the punch.

"I can see the smoke's about to start rolling out of your ears, so let me stop you there. Ange and I both knew what we were about." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Like I said—she and George are better suited."

_Well._ She didn't know what to say to that. With an arched brow, she muttered, "Is he the better kisser, then?"

_That certainly wasn't it._

But it seemed to perk Fred up, anyway. "Really, Granger, is that the _only_ reason you can imagine her not preferring me?" He fluttered his copper eyelashes at her coquettishly. She wondered how she'd ever gotten involved in this nonsense. Why hadn’t she put a stop to it right away? He nudged her with his elbow. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be," she drily replied. "I can't imagine preferring either of you."

He laughed, and it was a warm, husky sound. "Cold-hearted witch!"

"Libidinous prat." But there was no venom in her words. In fact, she was smiling. Just a little, but definitely.

He had this annoying ability to weasel his way out of her bad graces, she was finding. Like she could throw all her anger and irritation his way, and it would just roll off, and then she’d forget why she was wound up in the first place. Angelina called it "the ginger charm." Hermione called it bollocks.

She only hoped he wouldn't learn to abuse it.


	4. The first confrontation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has worked out Fred's mystery, and she doesn't like the answer.

Hermione burst into the Great Hall like a screeching banshee. " _My dormmate?!_ "

In the end, she'd decided to make the entire trek _back down_ from Gryffindor Tower, after having completed her own morning breakfast routine, _specifically_ to catch Fred before mealtime ended and he disappeared for the day. She had no classes with him, and it wasn't as if she _knew_ where he spent his free time. 

And she needed a good shout. At him, specifically.

Down the table, Angelina looked up from her breakfast. "Hermione?" 

With all possible dignity, the young witch marched to that end of the table and slammed down the book she was carrying—not for effect, but because it was heavy, and she had just carried it down, up, and then down several flights of stairs again. It was excessive, even for her rather heavy academic load.

She was meant to be studying _Advanced Transfiguration for the Accomplished Teenager,_ for Merlin’s sake! Not berating boys over their unacceptable dating choices. 

But here she was, disrupting her routine to make her displeasure known.

"Morning, Ange," she said, too-brightly, and with just a dash of mania. “Great match yesterday, by the way. That Hogshead Attack in the last ten was inspired.” 

She barely waited for the witch to get an answer out—“ _Hawks_ head Attack, actually. But thanks?”—before whirling on the object of her fury, who was contentedly preparing himself a slice of toast.

" _You_ ,”she accused, “were snogging _my dormmate._ That's why you were doing that weird thing with your robes—and then following me! You were _hiding_ her, you underhanded, loutish—"

"Easy, Granger," George cut in, his eyes darting to his twin and then back to her. There was an undercurrent of concern beneath his usual smile. Angelina, who sat on George's other side, _also_ looked rather startled. "There are innocent ears about." 

To her great irritation, Fred seemed perfectly unbothered by her ire and continued eating his toast—which had _far_ too much jam on it. Ridiculous. It was a miracle he didn't have cavities.

She snorted, pinning the less troublesome twin with a venomous glare. "I hope you're not talking about _his_ ears. He doesn't have an innocent bone in his body." 

Before George could reply, Fred looked up at her, smiling pleasantly as he set aside his breakfast. "It's nice to know you care, dearest, but what _is_ this about? I was snogging _who?_ "

"Sophie!" Hermione choked, trying not to blush at the facetious endearment which Fred had so casually bestowed. Had he had some sort of personality transplant? In _what_ world was she his "dearest"? 

Certainly not the real one. She glanced around furtively, wondering if anyone had heard him. Was this—snogging Sophie, enshrouding it in mystery—a prank? She wouldn’t put it past him.

Lowering her voice, Hermione leaned down over the table, hands braced against her heavy textbook, and unleashed a torrent of quiet accusation. "I'm talking about the girl I happen to live with. Sophie Roper—that’s her surname, if you care to know—who you were carrying on with. In the Restricted Section. _Yesterday._ " She hissed the words, unable to control the memory they summoned—of his back, and the disaster that was his hair. Like he'd been caught in some staticky electrical current. Him flinging out his arm to hide Sophie from her sight.

She thought of how _satisfied_ he'd looked, trailing her through the library to needle her.

He was _such_ a prat.

"Imagine my surprise," she went on, "when I made my way up to the common room this morning before class, to get Harry, and I found none other than my own dormmate, _tittering_ away about—about _snogging,_ " she spat, "and angles and pressure… and _'oh, he's got such big hands'_! Honestly. I have quite enough on my mind without being _forced_ to retain the _mechanics_ of how you kiss."

She took a deep breath, trying to stop the rant that was quickly spiraling out of control. Reminding herself of _exactly_ what she'd heard— _“Oh, honestly, Hermione! Don’t be such a prude!”_ —well, it was hardly helpful. 

"I don’t care what you do in yours," she stated, "but can you not _at least_ keep your conquests out of _my_ bedroom?"

Fred leaned forward, chin on one of his hands—they really _were_ quite large hands, she noticed before looking sharply away—and then he blinked up at her innocently. "I thought I had. That's why we met elsewhere.”

So, he’d _known_ who Sophie was—how Hermione knew her. And he’d deliberately avoided telling her the truth. Why? Her mind darted through possibilities, discarding dozens before settling on something that seemed plausible.

He’d hidden the truth so she’d hear about it from _Sophie._ Sophie, who was going on and on about how good it was to anyone who would listen. The girl wasn’t particularly verbose, but she certainly had the intellectual capacity to expound upon how _great_ he was with his tongue.

Hermione shuddered. Was he _trying_ to keep her on the verge of gagging in perpetuity? 

"I meant," she clarified, voice dripping with venom, " _Sophie,_ who is my _dormmate._ "

"So, let me get this straight: I'm not allowed to pull _any_ of the girls in your dorm?" The way he said it made it sound like he was giving in to a rather bothersome but not unexpected compromise with a particularly hard negotiator. 

But she wasn't _negotiating_ —she was asking for some basic human decency from someone who had a rather wide net from which to, as he said, "pull." There was no _reason_ for him to seek out girls in her dorm—or even her _year._ Not when he had so many _other_ options.

"I would prefer that you didn't, yes.” An understatement. But diplomacy was probably her best ally at this point.

"And, I suppose,” he said nonchalantly, “that takes _you_ off the table, then?"

And there it was: the punchline to this whole set-up.

She realized, as she spoke, that they were still being watched: not just by George and Angelina, but by the whole of the Gryffindor table, which had at some point come to include Harry and—she winced—Ron. 

She'd entirely forgotten their audience. 

Perhaps doing this at breakfast had been a bad idea. Or _maybe_ , she glowered, she ought to have waited until the _next_ time Fred's exploits interrupted her life and dealt with him _then._ Then he wouldn’t have the opportunity to humiliate her. Or—her teeth clenched—to _try._

Slowly, carefully, Hermione straightened until she was no longer leaning on her book, hovering so close to his face. His smug, smirking face. 

He really did _love_ having an audience.

Still, what was he even _saying?_ That she was genuinely supposed to believe this farce? That, prior to this conversation, he’d intended to pull _her?_ It was absurd, and insultingly easy to see through, as far as jokes went. They were _barely_ friends—more like acquaintances—and making out like he was interested in her wasn’t even faintly amusing, let alone plausible.

She wasn't his type. 

And if she even _had_ a type, he most assuredly wasn't hers.

But, for whatever reason, Fred held her gaze with an unwaveringly cheerful aspect and awaited her verdict on the subject. As if she really had the power to control who he did and did not snog.

_How alarming._

And yet.

If it kept his antics out of her bedroom...

Hermione gave Fred a terse, subtle nod, suddenly weary of their argument, or whatever people who enjoyed this sort of thing might call it. Banter? She didn’t know.

She decided to treat this seriously; she wouldn’t let on that she’d seen through the joke.

" _Yes_ ," she pronounced. "I am _off_ the table." She even crossed her arms and stepped back into the aisle for good measure. She wasn’t just off the table; she was miles away from it. The table was on a completely different plane of existence from her own.

Fred sat unnaturally still for a long moment, looking quite focused. From her current distance, she thought she could make out his pupils dilating.

"All right," he agreed, nodding once.

_Too easy._ His acquiescence set her teeth on edge, and she found herself scanning his face—eyes, earnest; lips, neutral; brow, relaxed—for evidence of some other prank. Some caveat, some loophole he intended to exploit. Some unregulated piece of snogging magic, which would fall from the sky and knock her to the floor so everyone could point and laugh.

But he seemed content enough to go back to his breakfast, ignoring both the stares of the students along the table and her heated glare.

She bent to collect her book, ready to march off once more in search of saner conversation, only to halt at his words. 

"Doing some reading, Granger? Cheers." Fred winked at her, so casual. Like they hadn’t just had a very strained conversation, in which he’d tried—and failed—to play a prank on her. "Meet you in the library later?" His teeth flashed white, and she thought of Sophie’s words.

_“He left a bite mark, on my jaw. Had to glamour it this morning. Want to see?”_

Hermione coloured. Pressed her lips together. 

Fred Weasley really was the most infuriating person she'd ever met. 

"Not on your _life_."


	5. The time at the Burrow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about people who assume...

She had assumed that the end of the school year would bring with it the end of Fred Weasley's escapades.

She had assumed _wrongly._

He wasn't _so_ bad, of course, when he was at home. But then, at Hogwarts, she could find endless things to disapprove of: the way he was always taking witches on "long walks" and streaking through the sky during matches like a stupid ginger comet, intent on risking life and limb. And after their confrontation in the Great Hall, he’d turned it all up to eleven—he seemed to flaunt his disregard for the rules with renewed vigor. Even the horrifying end to the Tri-Wizard Tournament hadn’t been sufficient to totally dampen his spirits.

At the Burrow, Fred was a little less high-intensity. Less like he was performing for a crowd; more like he was performing for an intimate audience that knew every trick in his book. A little less relentless, though perhaps more alarmingly nuanced. When she’d first stepped out of the Floo, he’d looked dead at her and said, “You’re looking lovely today, Granger,” and then just winked and disappeared, leaving her to wonder for hours. Which was, no doubt, _exactly_ what he meant to happen.

She tried not to pay him any mind after that, but he was everywhere around the Burrow.

There he was, at work de-gnoming the garden—and then preening under Molly’s scant praise when the work got done in half the usual time, because he’d come up with a helpful charm. After supper, one of the kids would do the washing up, and Fred apparently always dried the dishes, even on his off nights. He didn't do it particularly _well,_ and sometimes, she'd reach for a mug only to find it somehow soapy again, but it seemed like Mrs. Weasley could use all the help she could get from her children. It was oddly— _thoughtful._

Really, Hermione thought graciously, she could almost like Fred—if she exerted a bit of effort. And if she managed to go more than a few days without seeing the love bites on his neck, or his hair rumpled in just that particular way that indicated snogging.

Still, she had assumed that being at the Burrow with no one but herself and his family would impede his ability to pull witches. But Fred was a resourceful wizard. And, more to the point, he had access to Floo powder.

The fourth night of her stay—and several nights before they were due to relocate, on Dumbledore's orders—she'd been having a late night cup of tea, as she often did when she couldn't sleep, and was tucked up by the fire when the flames suddenly went bright green and spat out a mussed, dirty-looking wizard.

A mussed, dirty-looking wizard with a _spectacularly_ self-satisfied smile on his lips.

She ought to have said something—anything to indicate her presence as more than a blanket-shaped lump on the couch. But the soothing lavender in her tea and the cheery crackle of the resuming flames had lulled her into a dreamy state, and she was content to wait for him to notice her.

 _Funny,_ she thought. She hadn't even realized he was gone.

As he hung up his robes and she watched through half-lidded eyes, Hermione found herself noticing things.

For the first time, it occurred to her that he had nice, rather broad-ish shoulders. That his posture was rather good, when he put in the effort, which he usually only did when he was acting "twinnish," as Angelina called it. The term seemed to encompass an attitude of pride, mischievousness, and devil-may-care self-assurance.

Tonight, though no one was watching, he walked with that certain something in his step; it reminded her of when he and the other players strode off the Quidditch pitch after a win. Sore, stiff, but with a sense of accomplishment.

She wondered where he'd been, to come back looking that way.

And when he turned, the clothes _beneath_ the robes were—

Hermione gasped, the noise lost in the crackle of the fire.

They were _covered_ in grass-stains. And it wasn’t just his jumper and trousers. A moment more of observation revealed green under his fingers, grass clippings in his hair, and a smudge on his cheek that made him look more than just roguish. He looked like he’d been wrestling someone atop the pitch.

“What, did you have a go with a Bludger?”

Fred froze mid-step, his smile widening in startled amusement as his eyes whirled to the sofa. “No,” he said, the word carrying a hint of laughter. “But close.” He changed his direction and crossed back toward the couch where she was resting, hesitating for only a moment before dropping, cross-legged, to the floor with a faint wince. “What’s got you up so late, Granger?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snarked. “Does your mother know you’ve been dipping into her supply of Floo powder?”

“I’m not.” Fred shrugged easily, leaning back on his arms. The stains were particularly bad in the front, like he’d spent a good amount of time belly down. Whatever sort of tussle he’d been caught in, he looked to have lost. Which didn’t at _all_ explain the contented expression. “George and I have our own private stash, upstairs. In the trunk between our beds. Little blue bag at the very bottom.”

Confused, Hermione frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In case you need it.”

Once again, she wondered if this was a prank—but actually, it seemed like a bit of an olive branch. Perhaps he was regretting the way his constant escapades made him appear to her. Or maybe—she flushed—he assumed she’d stop being so nosy if she went out and “got some” herself, and this was his way of facilitating it.

After a too-long pause, she answered. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” he said, flashing a toothy grin that made her stomach do an odd flop. “Anyway, I’m knackered. Do you plan to sleep down here?” His eyes skimmed her and her thin blanket covering, narrowing slightly. “I can get you a pillow.”

A trick pillow, most likely. One that gave her chronic, incurable bedhead.

“No,” she shook her head rapidly, the friction making her curls spark with static. “No, thank you. I’m just going to finish my tea,” here, she gestured to the mug sitting on the floor, half-drunk, “and then turn in.”

He nodded, a lank of hair flopping down into his face. He was well past due for a haircut; Mrs. Weasley continually threatened to take to the twins’ heads with scissors. But they argued that if Bill could pull off a pony-tail, so could they.

Hermione imagined it was only a matter of time before the indomitable witch got her way. She'd never let them go back to Hogwarts looking like that. Under the blanket, her fingers twitched.

“Sure, sure," Fred mumbled. "D’you …” The words drifted off, his jaw working for a moment before continuing. “D’you want me to stay up with you?”

Smiling a fraction, she shook her head again. “No, you go on. You look—”

She couldn’t settle on a word. _Wrecked. Exhausted. Too happy for me to cope with._ His cheek dimpled with a grin. “Delectable? Dashing? Positively edible?”

“Filthy,” she pronounced, rolling her eyes. “You should shower before bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted her as he got to his feet, and she had to roll onto her back to look up at him.

She swallowed. “Fred?”

“Hm?”

“You weren’t—” _Fighting. Getting hurt. Were you?_ The question took a moment to dislodge itself from her mouth. “Did you… have a good time?”

She didn’t know why she wanted to ask—only, it felt important, somehow. To make sure he _hadn’t_ been fighting. She knew how he was. What his temper was like. The idea of him sneaking out to get beaten up by some boy wasn’t _entirely_ out of the question, especially if he thought he had good reason.

After the year they’d all had—

But he only grinned at her, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “You’re not _worried_ about me?”

“Should I be?” she countered.

He shook his head. “No, Granger. You shouldn’t be. Just blowing off some steam. I had a _very_ good time,” and he said it with such a wicked intonation that she almost regretted asking—worried he’d launch into specifics about how good a time he’d had. "You picked a good word, actually; it _was_ rather filthy."

She held up a hand. “No details, please. I’m just glad you’re… happy.”

Fred pressed his hand to his chest, looking at her in a mock-affected sort of way, as if to say, _You’re too kind, you sanctimonious little swot._ His easy smirk returned in full force as he turned to go, and she rolled her eyes. Everything was back to normal for them, apparently.

And then he tossed his parting words over his shoulder. “If you think _I’m_ happy, you should see the other guy."

Hermione blinked rapidly.

_Huh._

It wasn’t until he’d disappeared up the stairs that her mind cleared and she found herself, hand clasped over her mouth, _smiling._


	6. The time in the Prefect's Bath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is off to a... steamy start.

Within the first month of term, Hermione had gotten a fair taste of what her role as Prefect would entail.

It appeared to be a non-stop effort to maintain order, and scolding Fred, George, and Lee for their _barbaric_ use of innocent first years as test subjects had only been the tip of the iceberg. Whether it was the seeds of rebellion Umbridge unknowingly sowed with her poor attitude and educational edicts, or something more innocent—something as simple as high spirits in the younger set—Hermione couldn't say. But it was a maddening job, on top of managing Harry and Ron, and Hermione often felt like she was getting all of the labour and none of the perks that were supposed to make the life of a Prefect feel rewarding.

She decided, on a Sunday evening, to change that.

When she found the Prefect's Bath, through an out-of-the-way door behind an old statue, Hermione looked around twice before whispering the password. It wasn't paranoid, she reminded herself, to be concerned these days. Draco Malfoy was a Prefect, too, and the _last_ thing she needed was him following her into the bath.

The door opened with a faint _thunk_ —like that of a latch falling open—and Hermione stepped inside, only to be buffeted in the face by a wave of hot, spiced-smelling steam. Cloves and cinnamon assaulted her senses. She had to blink a few times to clear her vision, which gave her plenty of time to contemplate why whoever was in the bath hadn’t _locked the sodding door._

“Granger, if that’s you—”

 _Right._ She bit down and tried not to groan. _That’s why._

“Of course it is,” she sighed, already turning again to reach for the door handle, which had instantly been swallowed by the thick, white steam. “Just my luck.”

“Oh, that’s _scary,_ ” came another voice—familiar in its timbre, like she’d heard it a thousand times, but Hermione couldn’t place it. She was too busy scrabbling at the door, looking for a way out. How had the door handle just _disappeared?_ Was it cursed—was _she?_

“I know,” Fred agreed, still at a loud, conversational volume. “She’s dead scary. It’s like she’s got a fifth sense or something.”

“ _Sixth_ sense,” she corrected.

He gave a little huff of amusement. “Overachiever.”

The smile in his voice brought something to her mind—just a notion, but she whirled on her heel to peer through the steam.

“Fred,” she said, suspicion extending the name to a multi-syllable word. “Did you—” and then she saw the tip of a wand, emerging through the haze. Perhaps her eyes were adjusting. She shuffled a step closer and saw a pale hand, attached to a pale arm, attached to a body that was down in the basin of the pool, but twisted toward the door—toward her. And then finally, coming into focus, a grinning Fred Weasley—

With a red-faced Lee Jordan in his lap.

“Yeah,” Lee nodded. “He locked you in here.”

Her jaw flexed. “And _why_ did he do that?”

“I’m _right here!_ ” Fred piped up, though he was grinning too widely for her to take the complaint seriously. She continued to ignore him.

“Because he’s a pain in the arse,” Lee supplied. He smiled fondly.

“You’d know.” Fred’s tone was laden with suggestion.

Hermione groaned. “Well, I _don’t_ want to know.”

“Then stop interrupting my fun!” Fred protested, splashing his arms like a petulant little boy. Unable to disregard his presence any longer, she leveled a glare at him. His cheeks were pink with the heat of the room.

“I _would,_ ” she enunciated, very slowly, “except you _locked me in here._ ”

“Oh.” He paused, smile spreading even more impossibly wide. “Right. Well, in any case, you’d better sit down. The latchkey charm is on a timer.”

This time, she didn’t hold back her groan. “You are _impossible._ ”

Lee chuckled. “He knows.” And then he gave a little wave of his arm—the one that wasn’t bracing him atop Fred. Which, she still wasn’t allowing herself to think about. “Come have a soak, Hermione. This tub’s bigger than the pitch—plenty of room for the three of us, and a whole Quidditch team, besides.”

“Is that how you got in here? Because he’s on the team?” It was a diversion, to give herself the chance to think. Could she do it? Could she _actually_ get in?

Fred was nodding, his head turning away from her—was he giving her privacy? “Ange gave up the password in exchange for some very sensitive information about a certain brother of mine.”

“I see.” Hermione closed her eyes and held her wand to the center of her body, concentrating very hard on visualizing the proper outfit. She focused particularly on the _shape_ of the suit; that was the most important thing. So long as it covered all the important bits, everything would be fine. She breathed out through her nose. “Well, I’m glad to know that Hogwarts’s password security is airtight.” Under her breath, she mumbled an incantation.

When she opened her eyes, Lee was giving her a thumbs-up. Looking down at herself, Hermione assessed the quality of her work. Not bad, if she didn’t count the dingy almost-white of the fabric; she hadn’t accounted for the colours of her school uniform. And it was cut a bit high around her thighs, showing more than the usual amount of leg. Still, it was a successful swimsuit. She shot him a little grin and made for the lip of the pool.

“No need to worry, Granger,” Fred was saying. “Nobody’s getting through that door now.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” She bit her lip and dipped a toe into the water. It was pleasantly warm—not quite scalding, which was how she preferred her showers. But she knew that in a bath like this, at that temperature, she’d be red as a lobster. And that was the _last_ thing she needed, while sitting in it with two seventh year boys.

Hermione was careful to keep her footing even—and her eyes to herself—as she strolled down, past them and into the water. Within seconds, the steam was frizzing her hair and making it stick to her neck, and she twisted her wand up into it, piling the curls atop her head just to keep them out of the way. There was no help for the state of her hair _now_ , she thought with a sigh.

She noticed, however, that Fred had gone quiet.

Settling across the wide tub, a filmy curtain had fallen between them, blurring the muscles and bones of Lee’s back, and turning Fred’s face into a pale smudge, crowned with ginger flame.

“I felt that,” Lee said, his voice lower. But it was still loud enough to carry. _Felt what?_ She didn’t ask. She closed her eyes instead, and let the heat of the water soothe the ache in her muscles.

It had been a long week—a long week in a series of equally long, unforgiving weeks—and even if this wasn’t precisely how she’d envisioned soaking in the bath—

It really wasn’t so bad.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost forget that there were two boys in some indeterminate state of entanglement just across the pool. But Fred seemed unlikely to let her forget any such thing, so she leaned back and waited, and kept her eyes on the vaulted ceiling, where steam swirled like dancing ghosts, being drawn up into the ether. Which reminded her—

“Where’s Myrtle?” Her voice broke the small silence, and she worked _not_ to clear her throat uncomfortably. “Doesn’t she hang about in here?”

“We paid her off,” Fred explained, leaping at the conversational gambit with his usual eagerness. “Copy of _PlayWizard,_ charmed with self-turning pages.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “From your personal collection, I assume?”

“Naturally.” She could _hear_ the laugh percolating in his voice.

Once again, their attempt at conversation lapsed into silence, except for the faint rushing hiss of the taps and the rippling of the water when one of their limbs shifted and broke the surface. Hermione felt the knot of tension in her lower back start to give way, and she let out a long, soft exhale, which tangled with the steam.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Lee asked. “Hell if I know what the scent is—we picked a tap at random—but it smells a bit like my Nan’s holiday baking.” She heard the sound of water slapping itself intensify as he crawled off of Fred’s lap and settled beside him. She was amused to note Fred’s dissatisfied—and slightly pained—little grunt. They must’ve been in quite the state for moving to cause such difficulty.

“Gorgeous,” she admitted. “I’ve been meaning to get down here for ages, but can’t ever seem to find the time.”

“That’s what comes of being a Prefect,” Fred teased. “All work and no play.”

“Well, I’d have a lot less work on my hands if _someone_ didn’t keep testing his products on _students._ ” Hermione felt her whole body tense the very moment the words left her mouth; this had been a bit of a sore point between them—actually, “sore” would be an understatement—but she didn’t want to get into an argument while she wasn’t wearing any knickers. It would take any sense of moral authority out of her argument.

But Fred just shrugged. “We’ve laid off the firsties. Only upper years now, I’ll have you know.”

“Fred, don’t make me argue with you while you’re naked. You won’t like the results.”

“I disagree,” Lee interjected. “I think he’d like it very much.” His head was lolling against Fred’s shoulder, and she caught the glimmer of his white teeth through the clearing steam.

“Shut up, Lee,” Hermione said, at the same time that Fred said, “Button it, Jordan.”

And then—to her surprise—he added, “Time’s up on the lock, I think. We’ll leave you in peace, Granger.” Her mouth popped open in silent confusion as he gave one terse nod.

He twisted again, so fast that Lee hardly had time to shift before Fred hauled himself out of the water and walked away. It was a sudden, spring-loaded motion, sending water pouring off of him like the tide going out, and Hermione forgot to look away for a whole second before it occurred to her just _what_ she was seeing, and _why_ she shouldn’t be seeing it.

Glancing at Lee, she could make out the distinct shape of his shoulders, shuddering with quiet laughter.

“Enjoy your bath, Hermione,” he said. And then he winked at her before turning to get out himself. This time, she remembered to close her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i had an idea at 8pm, mainlined caffeine, and now this fic is a chapter longer than it was yesterday. hope you enjoyed this little scene, in which i stole ideas from... my own fic?


	7. The time in the Room of Requirement.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure is starting to get to Hermione, and she has to take it out on _something._ Or someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter yet. egads!

Hermione had to spend a few minutes tracking it down, but in the end, she found the door: it materialized at the end of the hall like a familiar apparition, catching her eye with a ripple of stone and wood. Hurrying, she made for the door, eyes darting to either side for any sign of Inquisitors. But it was mercifully quiet tonight, except for the sound of her footsteps.

The doorway shimmered as she drew near, as if threatening to fade out of existence—but Hermione had a very great need, and willed the castle to understand.

She _needed_ to practice the Patronus Charm.

Despite Harry's patient instruction, she had been one of the last students to produce any sort of Patronus. And to her great dismay, it had largely been wispy and inanimate, floating on the air like mist. There had been no particular shape or movement to it, and she'd felt a distinct lack of—something. It was perhaps reductive to call it "joy," but she had no better word for what she was missing.

The only way to improve, Hermione knew, was practice. And rather than keeping her dormmates up all night with her muttering and flickering lights, she'd elected to take a risk, donning her robes over her pyjamas—with her Prefect Badge pinned proudly at the lapel, though that would hardly save her if an Inquisitor caught her out tonight.

On Silenced footsteps, she'd stolen out of the portrait hole, making for the part of the castle where the Room of Requirement was most likely to haunt.

As she stepped up to the door, the young witch pressed her open palm to the wood with a sense of hopefulness. What she _needed,_ she decided, was to determine what it was that inspired that missing feeling. That happiness, or joy, or whatever it might be.

She pushed open the door.

Within lay, _not_ the training room she'd come to expect, but something entirely different. The Room had created a perfectly cosy sort of space that almost reminded her of the Burrow. The low-ceiling was ribbed with dark wooden beams, and the whitewashed walls boasted still paintings of pastoral landscapes that looked like some she'd once seen in a Muggle museum. On the right-side wall was a wide leaded-glass window, which was so quaint and lovely that she made for it immediately, in order to peer out at the distorted nightscape.

The window looked out over the lake, not quite frozen over, where the Giant Squid appeared to be bathing in the moonlight. And beyond that, the sky was speckled with stars.

In the centre of the back wall was a hearth housing a merry, crackling fire and beside it, a squashed-looking sofa. _Funny,_ she thought. This was almost _exactly_ like the Burrow.

Instantly, a sense of peace seemed to wash over her—the Room had understood, it seemed, something that she had not consciously known: that she felt wonderfully at home in the jumbled-up house, where everything was handmade and well-loved. Things were so completely unlike her own home in the suburbs, where nearly everything had come from a catalogue.

She wandered silently across the room and shed her robes, taking in the familiar feeling—the remarkably similar scents, the perfectly-worn textures. Coming to the sofa, she sunk down, legs criss-crossed. There was a knitted throw with some wobble in the weft hanging over the arm; smiling, she pulled it across her legs and settled into the warmth.

And then, she closed her eyes.

The idea of drawing on her feelings to cast a spell wasn't a totally comfortable one for the young witch, and it was hard to put her finger on why.

Perhaps, she thought, because feelings were so fallible—one could feel things _wrongly._ Respond _badly._ It wasn't always appropriate to feel happiness or pleasure; sometimes, a situation demanded rage, fear, or the cold comfort of logic. How, then, was she supposed to call upon something as insubstantial as a "happy memory" in such a time?

How could she depend on her own happiness to save her life, or Harry's, or Ron's?

Her own doubt was hard to conquer. It was a road-block she had to find a way around before even _beginning_ to cast the spell.

But they didn't call her the Brightest Witch of Her Age for nothing. Hermione determined to sit there with her doubt—to let it say its piece. And then, she would do something terribly unnatural.

She would proceed blindly on, in hope.

After a time, she lifted her wand—extended it out in front of her—and though her eyes were closed, she could visualize the motions she would make with the tip. A simple spiral. Not too tight, not too loose. She took a long, deep breath and then let it out, on the whispered words, " _Expecto Patronum._ "

Her eyes batted open in time to see a fading wisp, same as before. Frustration reared up inside her, and she had to intentionally loosen her grasp on her wand.

_No tension,_ she reminded herself. _No pressure. Only the happy—the pleasant—the peaceful._

This time, her eyes were open as she swirled her wand. The fire crackled in her periphery, the flames trembling between shades of orange, gold—and blue, like a flash of summer sky. A shifting rainbow. A flicker of auburn, warm and rich.

Copper.

_Red._

Hermione spiralled her wand tip with a buoyancy in her chest. " _Expecto Patronum_.” Her words were strong, warm. _Alive._ And—

Out sprang a creature, blurring with speed and intangibility. It almost danced, so fluid were its motions, and as it dove past her head and circled over her shoulder, the flat, blunt head came into focus.

An otter, dark-eyed and curious.

A creature known to be playful. Light and exuberant.

Everything she was not, Hermione observed—but somehow, the thought didn't sting. She smiled widely at the otter and felt a strange urge to greet it, or to reach out and touch it. But, after a few scant moments, it flickered away. It was due to her loss of concentration, but the impression the otter gave was one of distraction—like something else had caught its attention.

Its departure left her with an odd feeling. A vulnerability, like she’d been put in touch with something inside herself that she hadn’t known was there. She smiled softly into the open space where the creature had just stood.

She had contained all of _that._

It was with a new assurance that she lifted her wand once again, repeating the practiced motion. She took a breath. " _Expecto Patro—_ "

There was a bump against the door at just the same moment the doorknob twisted, and Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened. She had barely had an instant to level her wand on the intruder, but she acted on pure adrenaline, leaping to her feet.

The door fell open, and a couple fell in.

A mess of fabric and limbs—and a flash of red. _That_ she could discern, even through the raking hands which had it tufted and wild.

He was due for a haircut again.

She sighed as Fred broke from his partner—her river of honey-gold hair identified her as Patricia Stimpson, even before she turned around and looked at Hermione with a shocked expression, beestung lips wide. "Oh," she peeped.

"Evening, Granger." Fred's greeting was, as usual, comfortably casual and totally unbothered. The half-smile that twisted his lips made her chest burn and her fingers tighten on her wand. He had a still-forming love bite on his neck. _Already._

That soft, vulnerable feeling within her pulsed.

It had been a little while since she'd caught Fred—with whatever flavour of the week—out around the school. She’d bumped into him and Lee a few times, but always just before or after D.A. meetings, and never in any particularly flagrant positions. In fact, she'd been so caught up with helping Harry prepare his lessons and avoid detentions that she'd assumed everyone else was equally preoccupied.

But of _course_ Fred would risk punishment for some late-night snogging. She'd been idiotic to expect otherwise.

Still, to risk someone _else?_ To talk some girl into prancing through the castle, late at night, with Filch and Umbridge and the others skulking about at all hours?

It was thoughtless, even for him. She felt slightly sick.

"Hello, Patricia," Hermione said calmly. "Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know _you_ knew about the Room of Requirement." Her words were polite, but pointed, and her tone was clearly alarming the girl. She didn't look at Fred at all.

The wizard shifted, uncertain. "Now, Granger—"

She felt raw as she interrupted. "I think you'd better go, hadn't you?” _Don’t let them see._ Her eyes shifted until she was staring somewhere over his shoulder. “Unless you want to work on your Patronus Charm, too. But, no—I'd imagine not.” Her lips curved bitterly. “It comes to you so easily already."

Hermione's limbs felt cold. She wondered where her words were coming from. Why she was blaming him for her own fears, insecurities. Her own weakness.

She thought she might start crying. The rational part of her knew that this reaction was all simple exhaustion. A drop after a high. The euphoria had been eaten up by the adrenaline, leaving her… hollow. The Patronus Charm wasn't the simplest spell to perform, she reasoned, especially with all the sleep she hadn't been getting.

But all the logic in the world couldn’t rid her of the horrible, unsettled feeling that crawled all through her.

Patricia was starting to look properly uncomfortable, and the way she tucked herself behind Fred was downright strange—as if the girl thought she intended to hurt her.

Hermione realized her wand was still outstretched.

_Ah._

Her hand dropped to her side. _There._ But Patricia didn't emerge, and Fred remained stone still. She knew he was looking at her, trying to riddle out why she was behaving this way; the knowledge grated like sandpaper.

Hermione felt suddenly very exposed and terribly silly, standing there in her flannel pyjamas while the couple watched, in full uniform. Patricia even wore a skirt and knee-highs. _Presumably for easy access,_ Hermione noted drily.

"Never mind," she said. "I'll go."

She reached back for her robes, where they hung limply over the arm of the sofa, and—simply for effect—wandlessly summoned them with a muttered _Accio_. She shrugged them on, still not looking at the tall wizard blocking the doorway. She didn't want to see his expression; there was no possible look he could give her that would make her less disappointed. Less exhausted.

Less _confused._

"Goodnight," she said softly, heading for the door and _hoping_ he would move. "Don't get caught on your way back. Gryffindor can't afford to lose any more points. And _you,_ " she paused, her eyes flicking momentarily up to Fred's before dropping again, "can't afford any more detentions."

"Granger," he tried again.

"Have fun, Fred." And then she left the room, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. For a moment, she was tempted to lean against it and take a deep breath, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn't be in there long. There was no point in lingering around, waiting for them to come out and catch her lurking.

Hermione squared her shoulders and made for Gryffindor Tower.

She tried not to notice that his time, unlike the first, he did not follow.


	8. The time in the Gryffindor Common Room.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione struggles with more than just Fred's distant behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be warned that there's some rough language in this chapter, owing to mention of one miserable little ferret. also, references to umbridge's disgusting disciplinary methods.
> 
> p.p.s. i had a tough time with this chapter and was revising it right to the end, so please forgive any mistakes!

She was beginning to think that detention wasn’t the worst part of life under High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge.

Each day since the disbanding of Dumbledore’s Army and the sacking of the Headmaster had brought new, petty miseries. Where before, Umbridge had been unable to meddle directly in the affairs of other professors, now she was making sweeping changes to even the most innocuous of curriculums. Transfiguration was transformed into an hour of Ministry-approved tedium; Charms was heavily monitored, and all efforts at _practicing_ the assignments curtailed. Hermione considered it a minor miracle that students were allowed to keep their wands at all.

Funnily, it seemed that Potions was the only class that escaped somewhat unscathed, and that still came with its more familiar struggles. Snape, for one thing, had not given up his crusade to make the lives of Harry and all his perceived allies intolerable.

Which meant that her most constant struggle—something Hermione couldn’t relegate herself to, no matter how many times she was scolded and punished—was with abject boredom. The listless feeling she got when another entire day passed and she had learned absolutely nothing new. Except, perhaps, a few more derogatory synonyms for “know-it-all.”

She’d enter the year _convinced_ that she would hold herself to the standards of old. She had determined to take her duties seriously, not to give in to the dictatorial decrees of a power-hungry bureaucrat.

But she was failing. Her powers as a Prefect had been stripped back, making it difficult to protect the younger students from Umbridge’s barbaric punishments. All she really had at her disposal was point deduction, and that was meaningless when the blatant Slytherin favoritism left all the other houses with points dipping close to absolute zero.

She was failing as a friend, too. Harry was short-tempered and uncommunicative. Ron was predictably preoccupied by Harry. She didn’t even have Fred to worry about anymore, since he’d begun ducking out of any room she entered. Hermione felt—completely useless. Unable to help _anyone._

And that was just the worst feeling of all.

 _Though, it has to be said,_ she thought with a flex of her aching hand— _the detentions_ are _quite bad._

Hermione remained lost in her thoughts and worries, even as she wandered into the common room. So much so, that she nearly missed the motion on the sofa.

Curled up together—next to the fire which always roared, regardless of the weather or season—were two bodies with limbs entangled, lying back to chest, uniforms disheveled. She could make out the distinctive red hair immediately, but it took longer to identify the other party, who seemed to be operating as a rather large cushion for a cozy-looking Fred.

And _kissing_ him—his throat, which was exposed above his slack tie and unbuttoned collar. His head was tossed back and he was making a satisfied little sound at the undeniable contact. It indicated the _end_ of an encounter, though, rather than the anticipatory start or heated middle. He sounded— _sated._ She wondered who he'd been shagging in the middle of the common room.

That is, until a head poked out from where it had been hiding, in the curve of Fred’s neck. Lee looked at her for a cautious moment before saying, “‘Lo, Hermione.”

Fred’s eyes snapped open, and there was a sudden tension in his limbs—like he intended to get up and leave. She didn’t blame him; her own desire to escape had flared, too. But Lee’s arm briefly tightened around Fred’s shoulders—a subtle reminder, or a show of support. Hermione watched, chewing her lip to bits, as his tension drained away, and as Fred went back to carelessly playing with the fingers of Lee’s free hand; the other one rested on his stomach in an attitude of gentle possession.

Hermione thought they could’ve been a painting. _Lovers in Repose._

Fred examined the bones of Lee’s hand like they were an object of fascination, something that consumed the whole of his attention—but it seemed mostly like he was avoiding her eyes. Lee continued to look at her, expectant.

She tried to smile, to manipulate the muscles of her face to an easier expression.

“Hello, Lee,” she said softly. Swallowed. “Fred.” And then, for lack of anything else to say, she asked, “Good practice tonight?”

At that, two brown eyes slid her way with sudden and incomprehensible sharpness. She nearly jumped; it was the first time he’d voluntarily looked her way in _weeks._

She remembered—too late—that he, George, and Harry had been kicked off the team and that, in fact, there had probably _been_ no Quidditch practice tonight, because without them, there wasn’t much of a Gryffindor team to speak of.

“Right,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

He didn’t answer. She was beginning to think that this silent treatment was worse than all the teasing in the world. Then again, she hadn’t exactly approached him and offered apologies either.

“S’alright,” Lee answered, adjusting slightly under Fred’s weight. “The ban’ll only last as long as Umbridge. And she’ll not be here long.” His voice was bitter, but confident, and Hermione suddenly worried that they had something planned.

She watched Fred carefully for a sign—any sign. But he looked suspiciously blank, except for a small frown as he folded Lee’s fingers into a fist. That might’ve been a sign in and of itself. But her attention was distracted by other boy settling his chin atop Fred’s head, tucking him carefully close.

For a moment, they looked so wonderfully _right_ together that Hermione wanted to turn her face away from them—Fred, with his absurdly long limbs folded up on the couch, and Lee laid out behind him, nuzzling his hair.

The scene made her feel… strange. Desolate, in a way. And, even odder still—gratified.

Happy for them.

She didn’t know whether or not Fred’s escapades had slowed after that night in the Room of Requirement. That he was simply being smart about avoiding her—and hopefully by extension the Inquisitorial Squad—Hermione had little reason to doubt. She knew him too well to believe he’d give up his freedom just because she disapproved.

But for the past few days, she’d felt mingled gratitude and frustration that he could—probably _would_ —continue to sneak about, without her powers as Prefect to get him out of scrapes. The way she saw it, he needed someone to keep him from pushing Gryffindor’s points into the negatives. And she worried—worried that he’d get caught; that Umbridge would finally snap and expel him; that he would get some innocent person caught up in his mischief; that he would get _Lee_ caught up in it.

For all she’d done to avoid him, she just _worried._ And apparently for no reason, because it seemed like he was doing just fine on his own.

Here he was, safe in the common room, where no points could be deducted, shagged out and cuddling with the person he was closest to. He looked no more up to mischief than _she_ was. Less so, considering how she’d spent _her_ evening.

Fred turned his cheek into Lee’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed. It felt like a dismissal.

“I hope you’re right,” she finally said.

“What about you?” Lee inquired politely, his eyes shifting down to Fred and then back up to her. He seemed unsure about continuing the conversation. “What are you doing up so late?”

With careful nonchalance, she said, “Oh, just another detention.”

Fred’s eyes flashed open again, looking her over so quickly that she took a sudden, involuntary step back. His examination was brief, but thorough, and her hands made fists as she tucked them further up into the overlong sleeves of her robe. He held her eyes for a long moment before closing them again.

She was grateful, then, that he couldn’t see the words spelled out across the backs of both hands.

_I know my place._

_I know my place._

She’d become ambidextrous, rather than allowing her dominant hand to be cut down to the bone. Her handwriting wasn’t very good yet, of course, but it was good enough for the likes of Umbridge.

On the bright side, she figured, ambidexterity would be a distinct advantage when dueling.

 _If,_ she corrected herself. _If_ she ever had to duel.

Lee gave a sympathetic wince. “Yeah? What for this time?”

 _Being Muggle-born,_ she wanted to say. It was the truth.

But she told a simpler, more satisfying truth. “I told Malfoy to fuck off,” she said, her lips tightening around the curse word. She wasn’t all that used to swearing, though she was getting better. Eyes still closed, Fred's lips twitched, and her mouth echoed the movement. “Umbridge overheard me. I took the detention instead of the point deduction.”

Umbridge had also overheard the little bastard calling her “a filthy Mudblood cunt,” but that hadn’t really warranted disciplinary action.

Lee’s jaw tightened, and his head lifted a little to give her a similar, though perhaps less intense, once-over. “Tough luck,” he commiserated. “Though I’m sure the miserable ferret deserved it.” His voice was knowing. But then, his expression softened. “Need a bit of Dittany? Fred and George’ve been nicking it from the greenhouses, mostly for the firsties.”

Hermione’s throat went dry, and she felt suddenly light-headed. Fred continued not-looking-at-her with a fierce determination, eyelids fluttering.

It felt like ages since she’d scolded him for his selfishness. Aeons since she’d lectured him about testing his products on first years. And yet, it couldn’t have been that long. Only a matter of months.

And now, he was trying to help them. To heal them.

He’d thought to _do_ something, to strike back at Umbridge and her regime, when she’d done what—wrung her hands and done nothing.

A strange feeling made her heart lurch. Guilt, perhaps, for thinking the worst of him. Pain, at the realization that there was nothing brave about neglecting the younger, more vulnerable students, just because she might be punished.

Perhaps, she had given up. Just like Harry.

Hermione felt a knot of something—something sick and sorrowful—form in her stomach. And at the center of it was Fred Weasley, avoiding her eyes.

“No,” she said, though she’d been silent so long—staring at Fred for so long—that it felt unconnected from the initial question. She didn’t need Dittany; she needed to _do_ something. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Sure, sure,” Lee muttered, just like the twins did sometimes. They were all so close, she realized—so _alike._ It brought a little smile to her lips.

He tucked his head back atop Fred’s with a contemplative look, and Hermione forced herself to stop staring. She would have time to make it up with Fred, but that time wasn’t now. Not when he looked so content with Lee, and when she had so much to think over.

There would be time.


	9. The second confrontation (and subsequent resolution).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's high time someone broke the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note that all recognizable bits from this chapter are borrowed from the sixth book in the series, though you'll probably see that i've changed things... quite a bit. 
> 
> i will never forgive them for cutting The Scene from the films, by the way. _we could've had it all!_
> 
> finally, this is the _new_ longest chapter yet. and the new halfway point, since i will be adding... a couple more chapters. this just keeps getting longer and longer...

There was less time than she’d thought.

First, the twins had gone in a blaze of glory and a smoky haze, without her and Fred ever exchanging a word. Not so much as an apology passed between them, and Hermione felt sick over it for days.

Then, of course, she'd almost died in the Department of Mysteries, which was awful in and of itself.

Then, Sirius had actually died. Which was… far, _far_ worse.

And then she'd had to go home—to her parents, in front of whom she had to pretend absolutely nothing was wrong or risk being kept home from Hogwarts. Which had lasted all of two weeks before she'd provided an excuse, warded the house as best she could, and scampered off to the Burrow, hoping for a peaceful summer. A time during which she could process her grief—and her other equally complex, just-on-the-cusp-of-being-grown-up feelings.

Instead, she’d spent the summer alternately panicking about N.E.W.T.s and panicking about Harry, who seemed more dejected and moody than ever, and whose nightmares kept Ron perpetually sleepless and sharp-tongued.

She'd also spent a good quarter of her time sitting and watching while the entire household made idiots of themselves over Fleur. Ron was the worst, of course, but the twins—when they _deigned_ to leave the shop—weren't far behind.

Though they weren't often around the house, Fred and George spent their limited time at the Burrow stumbling over themselves in an effort to be charming: flirting, fawning, feeding Fleur chocolates that were spelled to create butterflies—literal or metaphorical, Hermione hadn't determined—in her stomach.

It was ridiculous.

She did _try_ not to hate Fleur so much, and when they were alone, she could manage it quite tolerably. Though the French girl’s English wasn’t very good, she could be quite funny in the right context. But when the whole family was around—when Hermione felt the power of Fleur's Veela heritage and her own deficits most keenly—it was difficult to keep herself from clawing at the beautiful young woman's perfect, _perfect_ face.

So, the young witch mostly tried to keep to herself, and to help Harry cope as best she could.

And, when she had time, to study for her N.E.W.T.s.

In an effort to facilitate the lattermost point, she had sent Professor McGonagall an owl about checking out some books from the library ahead of term, to better prepare for her studies. Hermione felt that the curriculum presented for the year was, while an improvement from last year, somewhat inadequate—though of course, she refrained from suggesting this to her favourite professor. She intended to fill the gap by getting her hands on some supplemental material that was, unfortunately, unavailable at Flourish & Blotts.

Professor McGonagall had been characteristically supportive of her academic pursuits, and even went so far as to invite her to Hogwarts to pick up the texts she desired. Hermione assumed this was to preserve the backs of the owls that would’ve been forced to carry the weight of her academic curiosity. That, and McGonagall seemed to fear Madam Pince nearly as much as the students did.

Rather than drawing from Molly's carefully-rationed supply of Floo powder for her trip, Hermione went searching in Fred and George's old room for the stash she'd been told about, so long ago. She imagined this wasn’t _exactly_ the sort of “need” Fred had envisioned, but it wasn’t like he was around to check. And when he _was_ around—

Well, it didn’t seem like he much cared what she got up to.

The massive trunk was still in their old bedroom, tucked between two long, narrow beds. Probably because it was too heavy to be moved. When she failed to find the powder in the trunk—only old blankets and jumpers, haphazardly folded—she checked the surrounding boxes, which hadn't yet been moved into their new flat above the shop.

But the boxes were an even bigger disappointment than the trunk, and a fair bit more dangerous. Her particular inspection of a box labeled SAMPLES had yielded nothing more than a black eye, which she would be forced to take with her into Diagon Alley.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes had been open all summer, but unlike the rest of the family, Hermione hadn’t visited yet. Given how she’d left things with Fred before he dropped out—the only word for them being “inconclusive”—she hadn’t wanted to seek him out.

She preferred to think of him as she did of George: as a blurred figure on a broom, setting off firecrackers and smiling, leaving a cheering Hogwarts behind. And Hermione wasn’t sure how he’d react to seeing her in the shop; if he was still avoidant and cold, she wasn’t sure how it would make _her_ feel.

Of course, she needn't have worried. Upon stepping through the doors for the first time, it became clear that the proprietors were nowhere in sight. And yet, they were _everywhere._

Looking around the marvelous place, a smile came over Hermione’s lips. She’d never seen a place better suited to the twins and their uniquely chaotic, creative minds.

There were at _least_ three floors crammed into the narrow space, and the walls, banisters, and ceilings were covered with the evidence of complex magic. Everything was a brilliantly conflicting technicolour mess, riotously loud, making her reel back and blink to adjust her eyes before proceeding.

It was overwhelming: everything caught her eye, but then something new would distract her, and the result was a dizzying sense of un-focus as she struggled to take in every little detail. Hermione’s jaw fell open in wonder as she stared up into the rafters, where fireworks burst in flameless miniature, candy snitches fluttered, and more than one Aviatomobile careened in an aimless loop.

And there were so many _people_ ; the shop was so packed that she could barely move through it, and it was only Harry’s determined pulling that helped her make way. They were turned out in front of a massive display full of brightly-coloured boxes, labeled _Patented Daydream Charms._

And—she exhaled gratefully—the twins still weren’t anywhere to be seen.

Hermione allowed herself to relax, and pulled one of the boxes off the shelf to show Harry. “‘ _One simple incantation,_ ’” she read aloud, “ _‘and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable.’_ ” She wanted to frown in disapproval at such an idea, but her grin only widened as she read on: “ _‘Side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling. Not for sale to under-sixteens.’_ ”

She stroked the glossy outside of the box with the tips of her fingers, where a girl with bright gold hair was swooning into the arms of a rather tall, strapping young pirate. She shook her head. “You know,” she said, grinning up at Harry, “that really is _extraordinary_ magic!”

“Am I to believe my ears?” a voice chirped, and Hermione immediately spun on her heel. “That tone sounds _suspiciously_ like approval. And from _Hermione Granger,_ no less.” It was George, a broad smile on his lips, though the look immediately faltered when he got a good look at her face. “Merlin, what happened to you?”

She blinked. “Oh! It—just one of your Boxing Telescopes.” Waving her hand to brush it off, she reassured him, “I’m fine.”

“Nonsense, we have a salve in the back.” He moved so fast that she almost missed it—plucking the _Patented Daydream Charms_ box out of her hand and setting it back on the shelf. “Just over there, behind that curtain. Perfectly safe, new batch this morning. Verity’ll show you.”

All this, he said while pushing her in the vague direction of a deep violet velvet curtain, and when she glanced over her shoulder, he had an odd sort of fixed look on his face and his eyes darted around uneasily. “There you are—I’ll just be,” he gave her a final shove, “showing Harry around!” And then she was bursting through the curtain, and stumbling into possibly the most impressive workshop she’d ever seen.

Only, whoever Verity was, she wasn’t there.

Fred was.

He was standing over a table upon which sat an enormous cauldron, stirring an unidentifiable mixture with a glass rod. Steam was thick in the air, smelling heavily of sugar and cocoa, but even through the haze, she could see that every surface was littered with projects in various stages of completion.

And the walls—they were _covered_ in bookshelves.

“Oh,” Hermione gasped, eyes trailing from cover to cover, widening ever further.

“Granger?”

Fred’s sudden jolt caught her eye. For once, he wasn’t the most mad-looking thing in the room. Though he did have the oddest pair of goggles shoved up on his forehead, leaving red ridges around his nose, and he’d shed his coat—purple with orange stripes, the inverse of George’s—and rolled up his sleeves, presumably to work.

And he looked _very_ alarmed to see her.

“What happened to your eye?” he demanded, dropping the glass stirring rod right into the cauldron, where it proceeded to disappear.

“Boxing Telescope,” she said mildly as he came to stand in front of her, tilting her head up by her chin. The callused tip of his thumb brushed against the soft skin of her jaw, and she suppressed a sudden, strange shiver. “Won’t your potion be spoiled?”

“It’s not a potion.”

He rummaged through his trouser pocket with his other hand, and she was alarmed to see that his arm had to delve nearly elbow-deep. _Undetectable Extension Charm,_ she realized. _Oh, that’s brilliant._

“It’s chocolate,” Fred elaborated. “I converted the cauldron into a double-boiler. Where _did_ I put that bruise paste?” He jammed his arm even further, and then seemed to find what he sought. “There. Close your eyes.” His tone brooked no argument.

Hermione didn’t even try to argue. In fact, she barely considered that she was perhaps about to be the victim of yet another prank. She closed her eyes.

“Chocolate, hm?” She sounded unimpressed, even to herself. “Still trying to woo Fleur?”

Fred snorted. “Is _that_ what you think we’re doing? Hold still, this’ll sting just a bit.” His grip on her chin got a little bit tighter, and then she felt a finger stroke carefully over the bruised skin around her eye. At first, it felt like nothing—a normal touch, warm and gentle, perhaps a bit slippery from the salve—and then she felt a sensation like pins and needles, which turned into a short, sharp sting. She hissed. “Sorry, love,” he said hurriedly. “Haven’t figured out how to make the anaesthetic play nice with the Fluxweed. It’ll be over in a tick.”

He wasn’t lying. Barely a second later, she was fluttering her eyes open; the skin around her bruised eye no longer felt puffy and tight, and there was no pain whatsoever. And—Fred was _very_ close to her, bent almost entirely over to look into her face, his expression one of taut concern. “Good?”

She stared at the freckles that filled her vision. “Good,” she answered, rather dazed. “Thank you.” He had so _many_ freckles. They were scattered like constellations, spanning the bridge of his nose and trailing out under his eyes. And they were the oddest reddish-copper colour.

It had been so long since she'd really _looked_ at him.

Hermione forced herself to blink. “What _are_ you doing, then?”

Fred righted himself and, after giving her a last glance, stepped back to his cauldron. “With what?”

“With Fleur.”

He rolled his eyes in her general direction, disdain obvious. “What do you _think_ we’re doing?” And then, trying another tack: “Tell me something, Granger. If George or I handed you a chocolate right now, would you eat it?”

Her answer was instant and obvious. “ _No._ ” _It would probably be a prank chocolate,_ she reasoned uneasily. And his hands were covered in salve, just now, so it would taste just awful.

“Okay, and if I were to walk up to you after supper on a completely normal day and say, ‘Oh, Hermione, darling, would you like a chocolate? I made it myself,’ would you even _touch_ it?”

She snorted, trying not to blush at the sound of that word— _darling_ —rolling past his lips. “Of course not. I know better.” _And I’d think you had a head injury._ He would never use such an endearment—not with her, anyway.

Except one other time, and he’d been joking then, too.

Come to think of it, he'd never called her "Hermione," either. That would just be _weird._

“Exactly!” He threw his hands in the air. “We’re product testing! Nobody else trusts us. But Fleur is new to the family, she doesn’t look at us and instantly see something to be suspicious of.”

“She _should,_ ” Hermione grumbled.

Fred looked almost hurt for a second, but then he just turned back to his cauldron, plunging his hand into the liquid chocolate. “Of _course_ she should.” He didn’t even wince at the heat, so she assumed he’d cast some sort of barrier spell on his skin. Silently and wandlessly. It was rather impressive, if she allowed herself to consider it.

Which she didn’t.

“Anyway, if I _was_ trying to get a leg over—though why I’d be trying to pull my brother’s fiancée doesn’t bear thinking about,” he muttered, now elbow-deep in chocolate, “why, Granger, would that be _any_ of your business?”

After those weeks of silent treatment—and then him leaving, without so much as a goodbye—and then seeing him, but never getting the chance to _talk_ —Hermione was reeling at the sheer amount of _things_ he had to say.

And she was completely and totally unable to respond. Her jaw slack, she just stared at him while he slowly extracted the dripping glass stirring rod and dropped with a clatter to the workbench. “It’s not—”

“Ten points to Gryffindor!" he crowed, sounding almost sharp. "However, Ms. Nosy, since it's clear that you _love_ getting involved in other people’s affairs, why don’t you tell me _why_ you were rooting around in my things?”

“ _What?”_

Fred wiped the chocolate off of his arm and pinned her with a stare. “We haven’t had time to roll out the Telescopes yet. We've got more testing to do, so kids don't end up looking like you did.” She simply stared at him, for once unable to follow. “They’re not on the shelves," he said, quite emphatically. "So, you didn't get that bruise in the shop. Why were you looking through my things?”

“I was looking for Floo powder!”

He wasn't satisfied. “Why?”

“So I could _use the Floo,_ ” she snapped. “And because—because you told me—if I needed it—and anyway, why are you _shouting_ at me?”

“I’m not shouting at you!” he said, very nearly shouting. And then, he paused—a sudden, somewhat sardonic smile cracked his lips. "Alright, I'm definitely shouting. Sorry." His voice lowered as he went on. "And you're right, I did say that you could borrow the Floo powder, but that was _years_ ago. We took it with us when we moved out."

"So I discovered." She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. But there was nothing for it. "I won't apologize for looking through your things—but I'm sorry that I've been… suspicious of you. Especially… _before._ ” She paused, hoping he would catch her meaning. She’d been wanting to apologize for her icy behaviour in the Room of Requirement, almost from the moment she’d done it. And now was her chance. “It was unfair of me. You've been… mostly… quite… _nice_ to me, and I think you—you _and_ George," she hurried to add, "don't get enough credit."

His smile spread even further, some of its bitterness draining away. "Someone ought to be writing this down. A _compliment._ From _Hermione Granger._ " She almost rolled her eyes at how much he sounded like George had earlier. Was she _really_ so hard to please?

"It's not a compliment," she sniffed. "It's an apology."

He made a dismissive gesture, as if the difference didn't matter to him at all. And she could well believe it.

"Suppose I owe you one as well," he said sheepishly. "I really _am_ sorry. Mum always says it’s the Prewett in us—we can hold a grudge for generations."

But contrary to his words, his foul mood had completely disappeared, leaving behind his usual twinkling, mischievous attitude. _Mercurial._ Like there had never been any conflict between them at all—like she hadn't spent _weeks_ avoiding him, and he hadn’t spent _months_ not speaking to her.

She couldn't make sense of it. But she found herself grinning, too.

Hermione felt a tension she hadn't even been aware of slipping away.

"So," he began, vanishing the contents of the cauldron, presumably so he could begin afresh. "What did you need unmonitored Floo access for?" Fred wiggled his eyebrows at her, tongue in the corner of his mouth, between his teeth. "Something fun?"

Flushing with slight embarrassment, she gave a noncommittal shrug. "Sort of. I was hoping to visit the library at Hogwarts and do some pre-term reading, so—"

"I _knew_ it. Knew you had something swotty planned." He shook his head, and then pursed his lips. A bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips—a Muggle brand, she noted in some confusion—floated over, hovering between them. She fought the impulse to step closer and watch him work; no doubt it would be fascinating.

However, Hermione felt the impulse to defend herself. “Studying spell theory _is_ fun!” At her words of protest, she noticed that several books on the shelf had suddenly begun to vibrate, rattling against the other books.

“Oh, well, if it’s spell theory that gets you off—” Fred gave a nonchalant shrug. “We can help you there.” One by one, books shivered and shook their way off the shelves, flying out toward the preoccupied wizard, who pushed them in Hermione’s direction with a wave of his hand. “George has a pretty good collection. Take a look.”

She was surprised to see that he was _right._ He owned two of the texts she’d meant to get from Hogwarts, and one particularly battered book that she didn’t recognize at all, but was titled in Latin.

Hermione’s hand stretched out to touch the spines, but with a gesture from Fred, they suddenly whipped up out of her reach. “Seriously?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"How about this, Granger: you take the books, keep ‘em as long as you like, _and_ I'll put the Floo powder back. But I have one condition.”

“And what’s that?” She didn’t take her eyes off the hovering texts. One of them looked to be quite new; must’ve been imported from somewhere, since she didn’t recognize the cover.

“You are _not_ to use the super secret Floo powder for responsible purposes, understand? You can only use it for the most ridiculous, fantastical, unnecessary, depraved, _debauched_ reasons you can think of." He waved the clean stirring rod at her with a smirk. "For the four f's: flying, frolicking, fucking, and—" He paused, humming to himself. " _Fun_."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Doesn't the last thing sort of encapsulate all of the other things?"

His smile was so broad that she thought his cheeks must hurt.

"Now you're getting it!"

Just then, George's head popped through the curtain, and he glanced back and forth between his twin and Hermione, who had leapt back a foot in pure startlement. She hadn’t noticed herself reaching out for the floating books again.

Grinning, George said, "Did someone say 'fun'?"

Fred winked at her. With a simple gesture, the books came soaring into her arms.

And just like that—she could hardly believe it, she could hardly _cope_ with the relief flooding her body—everything was how it had been.

Everything was _fine._


	10. The time in the Sixth Year Girls Dormitory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives a blast from the past.

Hermione hadn't meant to look.

She really hadn't. But she was only human.

So, when Sophie had suggested she borrow a dress for the Slug Club do, she'd taken her roommate up on the offer to root through her trunks and find something suitable. Sophie was a sight more fashion-obsessed than she was, and had a degree of taste that didn’t offend even Hermione’s more practical sensibilities.

And honestly, she _wanted_ to look good. Pretty, if possible.

Maybe not to impress Cormac— _honestly,_ she couldn’t believe she’d lost her head and accepted his invitation, but she’d just been so _scattered_ since the start of term—and then, Ron was being stubborn about not going with her, as it would “upset Lav.” But, regardless of the drama surrounding her date, she hadn’t had the opportunity to indulge in this sort of girlish enterprise since the Yule Ball _._

Then again, it was too easy to remember how _that_ had gone.

She’d been so foolish back then—conflicted in her feelings for Ron, and for Viktor.

And—

She’d shaken her head as she lifted the heavy lid of the trunk. Now wasn’t the time to think about past crushes; she was seventeen now, and had much more important problems than who did and did not fancy her. This was simply a way for her to support Harry in his mission to befriend Professor Slughorn.

But her style quest came to a crashing halt when she unfolded a particularly fluffy jumper and a letter fluttered out, clearly worn with being folded and unfolded repeatedly. An _explicit_ letter, addressed to one " _Sweet Sophie_."

She didn’t mean to look, but then—

By the look of things, the letter had a _limerick_ in it. A real, actual _poem._

The observation made her insatiably curious as to the letter’s authorship. Certainly nobody at Hogwarts could’ve written it, she reasoned. Most boys in her year were barely clever enough to manage a note reading, _Do you like me, yes or no?_ Let alone something involving creative energy.

" _Where_ did you get this?" Hermione cried, withdrawing the letter with a flourish.

Sophie scrambled off of the bed, gasping in horror before Hermione could even begin reading the thing aloud. But she ducked out of reach of Sophie’s limbs, taking the letter with her. Her eyes scanned the first few sentences.

It was hard to enunciate through her wide grin, but Hermione did her best. "' _Sweet Sophie_ ,'" she recited. "' _I hope that this letter finds its way into your clever hands, just like my clever c—_ ouch!" Her roommate had made unfortunate contact with her hair, jerking the both of them back toward the bed.

"Give it back!" Sophie demanded, turning redder than Ron’s hair. Hermione had never _seen_ her so discomposed, and nearly wheezed with laughter as the other girl snatched the letter away. "That's _private!_ " But despite her protesting, Sophie’s lips were lifted at the corners. She gazed down at the letter with a sort of dreamy look, like one might stare at a picture of a past love.

"Oh, come on, won't you let me read it just once?" Hermione clasped her hands together and pleaded. "I've never had a love note in my life!"

Sophie glared up over the parchment, hazel eyes flashing behind her glasses. "You get letters from Viktor _all the time,_ " she countered.

"Yes," Hermione admitted, heaving a sigh of mock-exasperation, "about Quidditch plays and experimental Arithmancy! That's _hardly_ romantic."

"What are you on about?" Sophie teased. "You _love_ Arithmancy."

But Hermione wouldn't be dissuaded by something as simple as the truth. She was curious about who could've stolen Sophie's heart like this—so much so that the rather flighty girl had tucked away a simple note for safekeeping. From the look of the parchment, it was _several_ years old.

" _Please?_ " Hermione cajoled, and she must've been convincing, too—because Sophie handed over the letter with a sigh.

" _Fine._ Just—don't read it aloud, all right? Someone might hear."

Gleefully, Hermione agreed and began to read to herself, hunched over the parchment like it was one of her text books. She started from the beginning again, hoping to work out some clues on the author, just from the manner of address. Who was it that so admired Sophie? She _was_ sweet—they’d gotten that much right.

She and her dormmate had gotten closer over the past few years, and now that Angelina was gone, Sophie was one of the only girls Hermione seemed to get on with at all. She was willing to acknowledge that their relationship was more like unwitting sisterhood—the product of sheer exposure, as opposed to similarities in temperament.

Still, Hermione could see the girl’s many good qualities; behind Sophie’s spectacles were soulful eyes and a rather tender spirit. Hermione often envied her easily-manageable hair, generous curves, and the way she carried herself—like Sophie knew something that the other witch didn’t.

And much like Hermione herself, Sophie had a fondness for Creatures and other living things. It had been one of the first things they’d really bonded over—Sophie had been _fascinated_ by Buckbeak, and thrilled to hear of his escape. Though Hermione had known better, even then, than to take credit, she was warmed by Sophie’s enthusiasm.

Really, Hermione felt with certainty, any boy would be lucky to have her.

Her appreciation of Sophie's good nature and kindness, however, didn't by any means reduce her amused delight at the contents of the letter.

There was an _awful_ lot of gratuitously coarse language, which she ought to have expected. Teenage boys weren't well known for their eloquence, particularly when it came to affairs of the heart. Though this writer seemed less preoccupied with the state of anyone's heart and rather more interested in the condition of Sophie's knickers.

There _were_ some admirable bits. Particularly the poetry, which resided somewhere in the middle of the writer’s effusive praise.

_"_ _I hope you don't think it's a joke_

_But I fancied a bit of a poke—_

_And to my great elation,_

_You met my flirtation_

_With the old slap and tickle and stroke!"_

Hermione snorted so hard that she almost choked. And there was _more,_ she noted in sheer glee.

_"Amazed by the state of your knickers,_

_I thought, 'Well, I'd just love to stick her!'_

_If we hadn't been caught,_

_Things might've got hot,_

_But alas, your dormmate was quicker."_

Realization came in a flash, and her jaw dropped.

"This is from _Fred?_ Fred _Weasley?_ "

Sophie's reaction was immediate—a flush of something, perhaps embarrassment, and then a slow nod. Hermione didn't know what to say, so she just went on staring at the parchment and her dormmate in turns, until eventually the girl started to frown. "You're not sore about it, are you? This was before I knew."

"Knew what?" Hermione said, rather absent, as her eyes skimmed the words, " _snog emporium_." Suddenly, the letter felt a little less funny. Honestly, couldn't she get even a _little_ reprieve from the concupiscent twat and his antics? Even just for a few months?

Her dormmate huffed. "That you fancied him, obviously."

_That_ caught Hermione's attention. "That I _what?_ "

"Don't play stupid, Hermione, it doesn't suit you," Sophie said crisply. The girl snapped the letter—which was signed " _The Ginger Shagger_ ," to Hermione's grimacing horror—out of her hands and tucked it firmly away in her own trouser pocket. "Though you've always been a bit stupid about _him._ "

Hermione felt a little bit like she'd been hit by a Bludger and woken up to discover that the sky was actually green. Sophie's postulation was certainly news to her.

"Sophie, please believe me when I say—I have _no idea_ what you're talking about."

She didn't know how to explain that fancying Fred wasn't even a possibility. Not even a remote one. Not even an inkling at the very back of her mind, where she kept the other crap ideas, like putting herself, Ron, and Harry into witness protection and hoping for the best.

It was absurd to think of herself and Fred as making sense in _any_ context, let alone a romantic one.

Instead of saying all that, she just gaped at Sophie like a landed fish.

But her dormmate rolled her eyes and got off the bed, leaving Hermione and the mattress to wobble confusedly. "Pink dress or blue?" Sophie asked.

"What?"

"For Slug Club," the girl sighed. "Merlin, Hermione. Smartest girl in our year, brought low by one boy. Even if," she added as her eyes glazed over, "he is _good_ with his tongue. I mean— _wow_." Sophie shook her head to clear it, eyes glazed behind her glasses. "So. Which colour dress would you like?"

Hermione didn't, for the life of her, know which one she ultimately chose. She was too busy reeling at Sophie's revelation. Or, rather—her _accusation._

It just wasn't possible, she decided.

She would know.

"Excuse me," she said, just a little while later. The pink dress—apparently, that’s what she’d chosen—was currently undergoing some alterations, to fit Hermione’s slightly less shapely form. "There's something I need to do." And then, barely giving Sophie time to roll her knowing eyes, she darted out of the dorm in a flurry.

Hermione spent the next hour in the library, crafting the perfect piece of correspondence—the precise thing, she thought, to get her point across.

For a start, it was addressed to " _The Ginger Shagger at Snog Emporium_ ," which was conveniently located at Number 93 Diagon Alley, London.

The contents of the note were quite simple, though she’d agonized over the wording:

_There once was a boy called Fred_

_Who would shag anyone with a head._

_But his brain was so tiny,_

_It pissed off Hermione_

_And now he is tragically dead._

Just for emphasis, she included a postscript:

_I thought I told you to keep your conquests out of my bedroom!_

However, as a sign of good faith—and to preserve their tenuous friendship—the young witch ultimately decided that she ought to sign off with “ _Love, Granger_ ” and a kiss.

And, with a smile and a flourish of her quill, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to roast my awful limericks in the comments!


	11. The time at Bill and Fleur's Wedding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And there was only one... bathroom?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please forgive any extra mistakes in this chapter. got some tough news today and didn't have as much energy for editing. but i hope you still enjoy!

It seemed that love was in the air.

Bill and Fleur were practically _glowing_ with it as they walked down the aisle, shining brighter than the bluebell flames that flickered all around. Harry and Ginny were all but inseparable that night on the dance floor, for all that Harry continued to claim they weren’t together. Even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were moon-eyed, shooting one another little winks and significant looks across the massive dinner table.

Everyone was pairing up and wandering off. Which meant—

Hermione pounded on the door to the loo with the side of her fist. "Fred Weasley, I _know_ you're in there. Unlock the door!"

The sounds were painfully familiar, though it had been over a year since she’d heard them. A feminine little moan and the sounds of fabric making friction. The bumping of limbs in a confined space. The noise that could really only be "Fred's Kissing Noise," which she could probably pick out from a whole _cacophony_ of shagging couples. It was unmistakable: a rough hum that activated something primal in her, like fight or flight, except it made her irritated instead of violent.

And yet, she had to proceed. Because, as large and meandering as the Burrow seemed to be, there was only _one sodding bathroom._

“Fred,” she tried again. She was beginning to regret that second Butterbeer as she fidgeted before the door.

"Occupied!"

She almost growled. "Yes, I _know_ that." The fog of pheromones would’ve given it away, even if the locked door hadn’t.

She heard a whimper, and then a shushing noise. The former might've been a plea—really, would it be _that_ difficult to stop?—but she wasn't listening terribly hard. She was more interested in tapping her foot impatiently and contemplating all the ways she could kill Fred Weasley through a keyhole.

When no other response was immediately forthcoming, Hermione knocked again. "If you don't unlock this bloody door in the next six seconds, I am going to blow it up, and then your nice, shiny new girlfriend will be riddled with shrapnel and splinters, so I suggest you—"

But before she could make good on her threat, the door flew open, and standing in the doorway was exactly what— _who_ —she’d expected to see. Fred had undone his waistcoat, or _someone_ had, and his tie was loose around his throat, which was adorned with not one, not two, but _three_ love-bites, one of which looked perilously close to his Adam's apple. His button-down was mis-buttoned, his fly was only half-done, and his smirk was insufferable. Not that she was _surprised_ by that.

"You," he said, with a tone of great satisfaction, "have _dreadful_ timing."

" _You,_ " she echoed, "have a room in this house." She grabbed the tongue of his tie and used it to forcibly remove him from the doorway, dragging him about by his ducked, infuriating head. He, alarmingly, did not seem bothered by this and went along willingly, a cheerful grin on his face. Though—really, he never seemed bothered by _anything_ she did. He treated it all like she was playing some great joke, and he was in on it. “It’s even got a bed in it. _Use it_.”

"But where's the fun in that?" he teased with a faux-pout while she reflexively attempted to straighten his tie. Though there was almost certainly no point. The futility of keeping him decent was _astounding._ His hair was, at this point, unsalvageable.

She only stopped her fussing when she realized he was looking up, over her head—at his companion in the lavatory. Her fingers froze in the tangle of his hair, and she flinched back like one burned. She'd been muttering, too: irritable little words and sounds, like, "prat" and "every time" and "ridiculous."

Her mouth went slack. And then snapped shut.

What did he think of her, fussing like she was? Like she had some sort of _right_ —

She eschewed that thought before it could form and instead dropped her hands to her hips. _Might as well lean into it._ "Oh, I think you've had quite enough fun. And you," she said, spinning on her heel to face the bridesmaid—she was beautiful, of course. But then, they always were. He seemed to prefer blondes, when he could get them. " _You_ deserve better than a quickie in a bathroom. I would advise that you try a different brother."

The girl's violet eyes— _honestly, who has violet eyes?_ —widened fractionally.

"Oi!"

"Between you and me," she confided as she pulled the girl down off the countertop, shoving her brusquely out the door, "I'd give Charlie a spin."

She smiled politely at the flabbergasted couple, even as her heart raced beneath her breast. And then, before the shock had worn off of Fred's face—before the girl could so much as _attempt_ a reply—Hermione slammed the door closed. Locked it. Put a spell to lock it on top of the _physical_ lock. And then put a _Muffliato_ on the door.

“What the _hell?_ ” she muttered.

Where had _that_ come from? Why Charlie? She'd not thought twice about the dragon tamer since she was twelve years old. Not in _that_ way, anyway.

She fell back against the door for a moment, but only until her bladder gave her a pinching, unpleasant little push. _You're cut off,_ she informed herself sternly. But another part of her resisted the steely command of her good sense. Really, she'd been having such a lovely time, before Fred had to go and ruin it.

Lavender had consented to release Ron long enough for one dance, which had been strangely enjoyable. He’d even apologized for being so cross with them all year; it seemed that he’d been anxious about bringing his girlfriend into their little group.

“We’re just so close, you know? The three of us.” He’d squeezed her hand. “Think it freaks people out.”

“I get it, Ron,” she’d promised. “And I’m happy for you both.”

Hermione had never gotten a real apology out of him before, and the sense of peace that followed more than made up for Ron stepping on her toes repeatedly.

And then, she’d spotted Viktor. Dancing with the famous Seeker might’ve been an unwelcome blast from the past, except they'd both grown so much. He still lacked a certain eloquence, but his eyes had twinkled as he’d twirled her around the floor, and he'd called her "Miss Granger" with a tremendous amount of fondness.

They'd kept up a correspondence, but she'd been telling the truth, all those years ago: he _was_ a more physical being. And a splendid dancer.

While she envied the easy swaying of Harry and Ginny—while she admired the way the twins danced to the beat of their own drum, or, perhaps, several drums playing out of sync—she could appreciate what an accomplished dancer Viktor was. He'd spun her like she weighed nothing; her feet never felt as if they'd touched ground.

She didn't have to _think_ or _worry._ She just followed his lead.

And she'd been doing so most of the night. Accepting his offerings of punch and Butterbeer. Flitting from table to table and smoothing his bungled attempts at conversation. It had been so easy.

And didn't she deserve something easy? With what was coming—a matter of _when_ now, and not _if_ —

Hermione took a long, slow breath. Tonight wasn't about that, she reminded herself. It was the celebration they'd all been needing for so long. And she intended to _enjoy_ herself.

_But you're still cut off._

She grinned.

Hermione hurried through the necessaries with the sneaking sensation that Fred and his date wouldn't give up their shag spot so easily. For all she’d insisted he use his own room, the locks on the bedroom doors at the Burrow were _notoriously_ unreliable, and he'd probably appreciated the privacy of the loo.

Not that privacy seemed to be his _main_ concern.

She almost rolled her eyes as she washed her hands and ran hurried fingers through her own hair, which the late summer humidity had made such a mess of. Her curls had doubled in size, unable to be constrained by mere clips and charms. She thought it made her look a little wild.

With a smirk poised on her lips, Hermione removed all the charms and yanked the door open.

" _Seriously?_ "

Against the opposite wall, the eager twosome seemed to be right back where she'd found them.

Worse, really, because from this angle, she could _see_ the way the girl's long, tan legs curled around Fred’s waist, the way her delicate, strappy heel hung just-so off the toes of the witch’s feet. The shifting of his hips, which made small circling, almost grinding movements. He didn't even have the use of the sink this time; he was using his weight to pin her to the wall.

"How are you even _doing_ that?" she grumbled, edging her way out the door. The hallway was so narrow that she nearly bumped his back. "Do the laws of physics not apply to shagging couples?"

She thought she heard a sound like a swallowed laugh.

For a moment, she considered doing something petty—a well-placed Sticking Charm would foil any attempts at further undressing. Or perhaps she could just leave them to it and then tip Molly off, leaving her to find them in their current state of entanglement.

But then, she remembered how it felt to float around the dance floor without a care in the world. She remembered that this was supposed to be a good night, a _happy_ night—for everyone. Merlin only knew how many more chances they’d get.

She gave a little sigh of resignation. “Oh, have it your way,” she murmured, pulling the wand from the narrow pocket of her dress. " _Locomotor homines_." The force of her spell pulled Fred from the wall, and it was only a testament to his years as a Beater that he kept the witch in his arms from falling. Hermione’s eyes connected with his for a brief moment, and the shock on his face made her laugh.

His partner made a peep—almost a squeak, as delicate and annoyingly perfect as _she_ was—but that was all. Because she was being propelled, along with Fred, back into the lavatory. The door slammed behind them with a bang.

"But don't be long," Hermione called. "It's nearly time for the cake!"

She could already hear an increase in sound—moaning, or something right on the cusp of so being. But through the muddle of the sound, she could distinctly make out, "Thanks, Granger."

She shook her head, blowing away an escaped curl.

"You're welcome."

And then, she rejoined the party.

But the thought came—all of the sudden, just a few hours later, while she sat in a fluorescent-lit café with shaking hands and absolutely no plan. She was glad she’d given him those last few moments, that chance at happiness.

Only, she hadn’t even said goodbye.


	12. The time in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a year away, what does Hermione have to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, this is the chapter that earns the tag "crack treated seriously (sort of)." fred is really up to some nonsense. but it's also, i think, one of the more emotionally heavy chapters, so consider yourselves warned!
> 
> as a side note, thanks for your kind comments on yesterday's chapter; coping with loss and grief is never great for my creative drive, but i appreciate every single bit of feedback i've gotten on this story. it's cheered me up in a very hard time. still, i'm going to take tomorrow off from posting, i think, so thank you for your patience. and please forgive any mistakes in this chapter—once again, editing was a bit tough.
> 
> without further ado, enjoy the weirdness!

The next time she saw Fred Weasley, it was out of the corner of her eye.

They were standing in the middle of the courtyard at Hogwarts, surrounded by rubble and death and destruction, and he was barely holding on to consciousness. Leaning heavily on George's shoulder, he had watched Hagrid step forward, carrying Harry's body—she could hardly even think the words, _Harry’s body_ —through one eye. The other was so swollen that it was almost completely closed.

His posture was oddly hunched, like a plant curling under fierce frost. His gaze drifted over her, dazed. Almost unseeing. She might not have even _noticed_ him looking, if she hadn’t turned to reach for Ron and seen it—a light that momentarily entered his eyes. Recognition. She could’ve sworn that his lips twitched, trying for a smile.

It looked like it hurt.

_But he’s alive._ She’d turned back to Neville and his inspiring words with that single word rebounding in her mind: _alive._

While they were still alive, they’d fight.

And, in the end, Harry was alive, too.

The time after that, he was in a hospital bed in St. Mungo's—and it seemed that everything was, more or less, back to normal.

Which was, in and of itself, decidedly _not_ normal. Borderline _weird,_ actually, after a year almost entirely without laughter, or joy, or safety.

With the exception of some bandages about his head, one arm being in a sling, and some residual cuts and bruises on his chest and face, Fred looked entirely himself: lanky and confident in repose. Not at all like a person who had been hit with the force of a genuine, actual crumbling wall.

No, Fred was simply smirking at the mediwitch, who seemed to be hovering over him with… _unique_ dedication.

When Hermione came through the door, in fact, the witch seemed to be visiting her patient with less than innocent intent, seated on the side of the bed with her hand somewhere under the coverlet. Hermione would never _normally_ assume a medical professional to be up to something untoward with a patient, but this _was_ Fred she was dealing with. And he seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to pick up women, particularly at inappropriate times, with a flagrant disregard for societal boundaries.

The sound he emitted—a ragged gasp, sucking in air like a drowning man—told her all she needed to know.

"Honestly," Hermione said, leaning against the door jamb, "I don't know what I expected."

As if to prove Hermione's point, the mediwitch leapt up, her hand flying out from under the coverlet. But Fred's hand caught hers, gently squeezing her fingers before she could get too far. "Don't worry about her," he cheerfully informed the nurse. "She's fine. Just likes to ruin my fun."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Yes, that certainly _seemed_ to be her principal role in Fred's life. Looking to the mediwitch, she spoke up again. "I'm assuming he persuaded you to do this under the pretext of medical necessity?"

Fred only briefly glanced her way, eyes dancing with merriment, before he turned his most persuasive look on the lovely young mediwitch, who seemed to be caught between panic and a desirous blush. The fact that she looked _genuinely_ conflicted about continuing—despite it being _wildly_ unprofessional, possibly illegal, and patently absurd—spoke volumes.

"Go on," he cajoled, his lips hitching unevenly. It was the smile he seemed to specifically use on people he wanted to pull—and it was _effective_. A bit crooked, with a touch of devil-may-care about it; the bruised eye and split lip only added to the effect. "We had a deal."

"I see. Reciprocity." Hermione wanted to gouge her own eyes out at the visual of Fred working his smutty magic on the poor mediwitch. It took only the scantest work of her imagination to conjure it. Come to think of it, her smock _did_ look quite wrinkled. "How very generous of you."

The mediwitch bit her lip. Her hand—which Fred had released, obviously not wishing to hold her against her will—dragged just slightly atop the fabric in his lap, contemplative. _Merciful Morgana,_ Hermione gaped. The witch was _considering_ it.

She was almost impressed.

"She won't tell anyone," Fred promised the mediwitch. He was still speaking _about_ her, rather than _to_ her, which Hermione should’ve found irritating in the extreme. But she was really too amazed by the way he worked; he was incredibly convincing. "She's been catching me out like this for years." His voice lowered to a whisper and he made a parody of hiding his mouth behind his hand. "Bit of a voyeur, actually."

"Oh, yes," Hermione agreed, totally deadpan. "I especially like the part where he cries after."

At that, his eyes flashed her way, and he seemed so genuinely delighted by their not-quite-banter that she almost smiled herself—before remembering that she was currently watching him be felt up by a woman in a winged cap, mere _days_ after his equally intimate brush with death. There was another motion atop the coverlet—something like petting—and Fred's eyelids fluttered tellingly.

It occurred to Hermione that she ought to be more upset by this scene. It was absolutely the most inappropriate position she'd ever caught him in, _including_ that time with Lee in the bath—certainly the first time he'd elected to proceed despite her presence. If she stood still and waited it out, she’d no doubt be treated to quite an explicit finish. Why wasn't she _shouting_ at him?

_Right._ Because this was Fred.

And he'd almost died.

And—annoying as he was, much as she hated to admit it—she was _unspeakably_ glad he was alive.

And also, as she’d noted before, she was just the _tiniest_ bit impressed.

Swallowing, Hermione tried to remember why she was there. Really, she’d just wanted to see him again. Maybe to talk.

She cleared her throat. "I was just coming to deliver a message from your mum," she said, trying not to be distracted by the mediwitch’s moving hand. "Would you like me to wait until after you finish?"

“That’d be lovely, thanks.”

The mediwitch’s eyes, she realized, were starting to narrow as Fred’s attention was continually drawn away from her ministrations.

In fact, the witch kept glancing back and forth between her so-called patient and his visitor, even as she grasped him through the coverlet. It seemed she’d decided on a more middling path—one that involved a good deal of superficial stimulation. Which Fred seemed to find satisfying enough, given the tension in his jaw.

But the woman was preoccupied, plainly trying to work out the relationship between the two others present.

Hermione stifled a vicious grin; for once, _she_ wasn't the third wheel in Fred's little love fest. "Fine. I can certainly wait, oh… thirty seconds," she added. "Or—however long you normally take."

"God, Granger," he said, though his voice seemed to hitch around her name, "you're _mean._ "

"Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…"

"Fine, fine—" The rubbing stopped as he grasped the mediwitch’s arm, squeezing gently, almost fondly. And then he sighed. "Well, thanks anyway, Meg. Looks like you owe me one."

The beautiful witch— _how did he know she was called Meg?_ —frowned and appeared, to Hermione's untrained eye, genuinely quite miserable; she looked at Fred with an odd, unwarranted sort of longing, considering he was half-obscured by bandages and blankets. And what kind of witch looked _that_ put out over an aborted handjob?

Perhaps the woman was attracted to invalids, Hermione theorized. To broken birds, pale in their beds. Perhaps she enjoyed the power, or the idea that she might be helping them during their most vulnerable periods. _Maybe_ —

But then Fred dimpled a bright, shiny grin up at the witch, who took on a flustered blush, and—like turning on a light to reveal a staggering and complete picture—Hermione understood that it wasn't anything to do with power or a taboo.

It was just— _Fred_.

She dismissed her tumultuous feelings and stepped further into the room. "Yes," she echoed, " _thank you_ , Meg. This was very instructive." And she did not look away until the witch had scuttled entirely out of the room, her eyes still leaping chaotically between Fred and Hermione. The former gave a little wave as the mediwitch disappeared through the door.

Then, they were alone.

For a moment, neither of them said anything at all, the atmosphere going terribly tense. She hadn't seen him in nearly a year, and it felt like everything about their odd friendship—if she could call it that—had been paused. Trapped in stasis, leaving her unsure of how to proceed. She stared at him, taking in the bags under his eyes that somehow didn’t dull the mischief sparkling within. “Well?”

She wondered how he could be so normal: how he could make _this_ feel so normal, make _her_ feel normal, when nothing in the entire world should've been. How he could pick up their strange, mutually antagonistic relationship without so much as a blink.

Hermione was determined to not be outdone by him and his… innate way of being. She simply dropped down on the chair beside his bed, presumably where Molly and the others had spent untold hours, and crossed her arms over her chest. "So, did this technically count as a threesome, then? Because if it did, I am _not_ impressed."

Fred shook his head, obviously amused. "When I get you involved in a threesome, you'll know it." He shifted a little in his bed, and she stifled a laugh at the rather sizable and obvious lump that the mediwitch's ministrations had left behind. “Hand us a pillow, would you?” He gestured toward his lap, once again drawing her eye.

Withdrawing her wand with a flick, she summoned a throw cushion from the rather stiff-looking sofa. It dropped mercilessly down on him, and he made a little, muffled sound. “Sorry,” she teased. “I thought you liked it rough.”

He gave a huff. “Cruel witch.”

But as he tried to shift further, settling himself higher against his pillows, her rather brutal amusement at his discomfort was replaced instantly by sympathy. His pained hiss made her wince and jump to her feet.

“Here, let me,” Hermione muttered, batting his good arm back down to his side so she could adjust his pillows. “You’re supposed to be staying _still._ You’ve heard the word before, I believe? It means _not moving._ ”

With her hands behind his head, he was close enough to pick up the ozone tang of magic and the lingering scent of smoke in his hair, even over the smell of St. Mungo’s and its varying powders and potions. She inhaled, closing her eyes, as relief washed over her in a wave.

_Alive, alive._

When her eyes opened again, he was grinning up at her from his cot, appearing for all the world like an innocent patient. “Thanks, Granger.” His voice was bright enough, but he looked paler than before, like even this minor adjustment had taken all the energy out of him. Tufts of hair stuck out from between his bandages, looking vivid as ever—perhaps even more so, against his bone-white skin.

She bit her lips to contain a soft smile.

He needed a haircut. How did he _always_ need a haircut?

"So.” He cleared his throat, and she bit down harder on her budding grin. "What does my dearest Mum have to say?"

Hermione looked at him askance. "She was here this morning, Fred. I'm sure that if she had a message, she would've delivered it then."

Brows jumping, he fidgeted under the shelter of the pillow. “Blimey. Just fancied a visit, then?”

She picked at her cuticles. “Is that so surprising? You nearly _died,_ Fred.” She was sincerely trying to keep the quaver out of her voice as she spoke, but she didn’t entirely succeed. It caught his attention, and the look in his eyes—speculative, like he was puzzling her out—made her want to turn away.

Was it _really_ so strange that she’d just wanted to see his face? To have proof that he was actually, properly okay?

He was Ron’s _brother,_ for Merlin’s sake. She’d known him since she was eleven years old, and she’d seen him on the battlefield—a dead man walking. She’d have done the same for George, or Percy, or Ginny.

But maybe it _was_ odd. He looked so confused, after all.

“And anyway,” she hurried to add, joking brashly, “ _someone_ needs to keep you from harassing the mediwitches.”

He continued to scrutinize her.

Hermione’s heart was beginning to pound uncomfortably, and she realized that she hadn’t taken a breath after speaking—just pinched her lips shut and _stared_ at him, willing him to understand what she hardly understood herself. Simultaneously, she hoped he couldn’t see the enormity of her relief.

Hermione took one long, conscious breath, searching for something else to say.

“We heard your broadcast,” she blurted. “When we were running.” Fred continued to watch her, and she didn’t know if it was a tactic or if he really didn’t know what to say, but if it _was_ a tactic, it was working. She found her words tripping over one another to get free. “Ron brought his radio, you know, and at first, it drove me spare. I had all these wards up everywhere we stayed, but when he had the radio on, it made it impossible to listen—t-to hear if anyone was coming.” She stammered at the thought of the Snatchers, her breath suddenly catching in her chest.

Her distress must’ve been evident, because Fred’s whole face seemed to compress and release, and then, with his good arm, reached across the bedspread to touch her hand. The contact shuddered up her fingers, and she exhaled sharply.

“When we heard—it was Lee, I think—when we heard him, Harry and I thought we’d _cracked._ I barely understood a word until you—” and then she stopped, cutting the words off before she could speak them. _Until you came on._ She swallowed, and very slowly, very carefully, Hermione turned her hand beneath his grasp, so it was palm-up, pressed against the flat of his. All it would take was a gentle curving of fingers and they’d be holding hands.

But she didn’t move a muscle. She just looked at him, saying, “Anyway, we heard you. You made Harry laugh, which is no small thing. It was the last thing we heard, actually, before Harry broke the taboo and w-we were taken—t-to—”

Her ability to speak left her entirely, and Hermione’s throat continued to work uselessly around the syllables of “Malfoy Manor.” Her eyes wrenched shut, unable to protect her from the onslaught of memories.

Slowly, Fred’s fingers flexed—curled around her wrist. And then he was holding her steady.

It felt a little bit like gravity being exerted, making all her limbs feel distant and heavy. She was so _tired_ all of the sudden. Everything went quiet. Her shoulders sagged.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “We hoped you’d hear it.” He gave the delicate bones of her wrist a gentle squeeze, much like he had the mediwitch, and then released her hand—and yet, her weariness remained. Getting up and leaving suddenly felt impossible.

So, she sat for a while.

And after a very long silence, they spoke.

They talked about small things; he asked her about the Hogwarts reconstruction effort, which she was obviously at the forefront of, and she asked him about how George and the joke shop were faring in his absence. It was all surprisingly civil, surprisingly _nice,_ and the longer she sat, the more Hermione felt her strength return.

The first time he made her laugh—a true, bone-deep sound that emptied her lungs and brought tears to her eyes—she wondered how she’d ever got along without it. Without this _joy._

And before she left, she found she had more than enough energy to reach out to him one last time, and tighten her hand around his long fingers and say, "You know, I'm quite glad you're not dead." Spoken casually, like it something she was only now noticing, rather than something she'd been oddly fixated on from almost the moment the battle had ended.

There was more to it than she could say. _I'm glad you're not dead and that you are still, somehow, entirely yourself._

_It makes me feel as if the state of the world can't possibly be so bad._

_It makes me feel safe, somehow._

His smile seemed to come up from the depths of somewhere, spreading slowly over his mouth. "Me too, Granger."

And then, releasing him, she smiled impishly. “Did you _actually_ go down on that mediwitch?”

His wheezing laughter and the ensuing riot of beeps from the monitoring charms caught the attention of a passing mediwizard, who came in to scold them. Mostly her, for disrupting the patient’s rest. She rolled her eyes. If only the man knew exactly how Fred had been exerting himself, before she’d even arrived.

Though she chafed under the lecture, Hermione left with a strange lightness in her chest.


	13. The time in convalescence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Fred recovers at the Burrow, he receives some visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am overwhelmed by all of your kind comments! thank you for your patience and giving me a day to get my head together. it was very necessary. now is also probably a great time to shout my appreciation for my girl thinky to the rooftops. she makes each chapter so much better, and makes the hellscape that is 2021 better, too. 
> 
> hopefully you enjoy this next installment of this silly little story. all but that last chapter is written, so we're in the home stretch!

When Hermione reached the bedroom door on the topmost floor, she at least remembered to knock. Knowing the nature of this particular invalid, it wasn’t so much a social nicety as a necessity.

“Everyone decent?” she called, maneuvering the tea service with one hand and knocking with the other. Angelina, who stood behind her with a length of cotton bandaging, gave a little snort of laughter, clearly sceptical. “A girl can hope,” Hermione mumbled under her breath.

A voice came through the door. “‘Everyone’?”

She could immediately identify the speaker as Lee, and he sounded… a bit breathless. Trading an eye roll with Angelina, Hermione knocked again.

“Merlin, mate, how many visitors does she think you _get?_ ” His voice grew louder as he approached the door, but she could still make out Fred’s laugh in the background, sounding hoarse and—yes, definitely shagged out.

She’d caught Lee _in flagrante_ enough times by now that she shouldn’t have been surprised by the state of him when he pulled open the door, but Hermione still had to _actively_ stop her jaw from dropping. She'd heard he'd been at the final battle, but she hadn't seen him—and if she had, she realized, she might not have recognised him.

He had to have gone through some sort of second growth-spurt, shooting up like a weed. A particularly _fit_ weed, who spent a lot of time lifting heavy things.

A weed that was _shirtless._

Luckily, Angelina gave voice to the thoughts in her head, so she didn’t have to. Whistling her approval, the older witch brushed past Hermione and pulled Lee in for a quick, one-armed hug. “You get fitter every day, Jordan,” she teased, gesturing to his bare torso. “Did you dress up just for my visit?”

“That depends." He pretended to consider. "Is George lurking around behind you?”

“No,” Angelina sighed, looking genuinely disappointed. “He’s at the shop today.”

"Then— _yes._ " His smile didn't waver, even when the formidable witch punched his arm.

Watching the two old friends interact sparked a sense of contentment in Hermione’s chest, and she stood there for a long moment, basking in the rightness of it. To come through all that loss and still be able to laugh together was more than a little miraculous. A glance over at Fred revealed a similar look: he wore an unnaturally subdued smile on his pink-flushed face.

“Hermione,” Lee pronounced after releasing Angelina. He smiled down at her with his usual joviality. “It’s fantastic to see you.” He reached out to take the tea service off her hands and set it at Fred’s bedside—which was actually just a stack of two storage crates, labeled _F & G_—and then he spun back for a hug.

It was quick, mercifully, because he was rather sweaty and over-warm, smelling distinctly of salt and musk and, presumably, sex. She could _see_ his pulse hammering in his throat, like he’d just been doing some rather strenuous physical activity. Hermione’s nose wrinkled as she stepped back.

“What has he been _doing_ to you?”

Once again, Fred’s husky laugh caught her attention, and she peeked around Lee’s rather bulky arm with a mock-glare. Which turned into a _proper_ glare when she saw that he’d taken his arm out of its sling.

“ _Fred._ ”

Lee must've sensed the oncoming reprimand, because he tried his level best to prove his innocence. “I tried to warn him—”

“Oh, _here we go_ ,” Angelina interjected, sounding entirely too amused.

But Hermione would have none of their excuses or comments.

“Gods, you’re the worst patient in the _world,_ ” she groaned, stepping fully past Lee to get a proper look at Fred’s arm. “Please tell me you at _least_ used your other hand on him. Randy git. You know,” she tossed over her shoulder, “he performed cunnilingus in the hospital, on a mediwitch! With a _head injury._ ”

“Did _she_ have the head injury?” Angelina joked.

“Says the woman who knocks boots with my younger, much less attractive brother,” Fred shot back.

Hermione groaned. “You shouldn’t have even been upright!”

“I _wasn’t_ upright," came his protest. "I was most definitely on my back the _entire_ time.”

He wasn’t wincing when she put pressure on the limb, but there was still substantial residual bruising; he wasn’t supposed to move it for several more days. At least his chest looked better. “Does that hurt?” she asked briskly, pressing into the muscle with her fingers.

“Not in the least, Healer Granger.” He was giving her one of those patented shit-eating grins again, and she rolled her eyes, which just made him smile wider. “At risk of contradicting your expertise, I am an _exemplary_ patient under the right care.”

His waggling eyebrows told her _exactly_ what sort of care he was referring to.

“Well, if your arm heals improperly,” she chided, “you have only yourself to blame.”

“And Lee,” Angelina added. “You can definitely blame Lee.”

Hermione pretended to think about it, and then nodded. “Yes, _and_ Lee. But not _me._ Now,” and she stood up, releasing Fred’s arm, “who wants tea?”

Angelina’s hand shot into the air. “Oh, I do, but only if we spike it.”

Fred’s face began to brighten at the prospect, but Hermione decided to nip _that_ idea in the bud.

“ _You_ can, sure. And Lee, if you like. _Accio_ Firewhiskey.” An amber bottle came flying out of the twins’ old trunk, which still gathered dust between their beds, and she shot the culprit a withering look. It had only been a hunch—but apparently, a good hunch.

The recovering wizard was preoccupied with pouting and didn't seem to notice her disapproval. "How come _you_ two get to have all the fun? Anyway, Granger, I'm surprised I haven't driven you to drink by now."

Come to think of it, so was she.

Hermione ducked her chin, hiding her smile as she poured the patient an un-doctored cup of tea. "Honestly, Fred. _Surely_ you've heard of potions interactions.”

“Yes,” he replied. “In our line of work, we call them ‘happy accidents.’”

She chose to ignore that particularly troubling comment. “Anyway," she primly continued, "I can't have Molly thinking I'm nicking them for myself. She'd string me up by my thumbs."

"As if." Angelina muttered, working determinedly at the cork of the bottle. "Molly adores you. She's trying to marry you off to a new son each week."

 _That_ was true enough. This week, it was Percy, the idea of which made the young witch viscerally shudder. He was so _uptight._ And what would they _talk_ about?

"Yes, well," Hermione sniffed, scooping the sugar. Fred always took far too much, and she added a level teaspoon instead of two. "Molly's favour is a fickle thing. No offense," she added, passing Fred the chipped teacup, which was dwarfed by the size of his hands.

His fingers curled around the porcelain as he blew carefully at the steam. "Oh, none taken."

"I think allowing one of her sons to poison himself would tip the scales." Hermione forced her gaze down to her own hands, carefully pouring another cup of tea. "Besides, as the only _sane_ person in this room—" and her words were met with a collective guffaw, "—I have a duty of care."

"How sweet," Lee interjected, looking back and forth between her and Fred. She had a nose for mischief, and saw that the impudent wizard was probably on the cusp of saying something inappropriate. With a warning look, she pushed the full teacup firmly into his hands. "So, Hermione," he said, taking a long sip, "you were saying something about cunnilingus?"

There might've been a time when mention of Fred's sexual behavior _hadn't_ been a conversational boon, but just now, she felt relieved to have the spotlight off of _her._

So, she played along with a dramatic groan. "I didn't see it—thank _Merlin._ I was informed after the fact."

Angelina was smirking, eyes flicking to her bed-ridden ex. "Did you do the thing with the—" and then she performed such an elaborate hand gesture that Hermione could only assume she was speaking in sign language, or some sort of secret code.

Fred nodded once, hair flopping forward into his eyes. " _Definitely._ "

"I don't _want to know,_ " Hermione reminded them in a sing-song.

"You know," Lee said, "it's actually a bit funny that you're the only one in this room who _hasn't_ slept with Fred."

It was something that had occurred to her before, in the presence of Lee and Angelina and Fred together, and she’d always been relieved that it seemed to escape their notice. She might’ve known her luck would eventually run out.

Hermione tried to subdue her flush with a sip of tea. "It's more of a statistical anomaly, actually," she offered in a dry tone. "I count myself in the minority among wizarding Britain’s under-thirties."

"Hang on," Fred cut in. "It's not like I've slept with _myself_."

Angelina gave a mighty laugh. "All right, who wants to explain masturbation to little Freddie here?"

"As our resident medical expert, I vote Healer Granger." Lee offered his comment with a wink, and Hermione wondered how hard it would be to spill tea on his lap from across the bed— _without_ getting Fred's bandages wet.

Probably not worth the effort.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I vote Lee, as he's got the relevant… _equipment._ And certainly more experience," she added. An afterthought, but it caught the attention of the room anyway. She could practically _see_ Lee's ears perk up; she staunchly refused to look at Fred, at risk of _complete_ humiliation. But she knew—just _knew_ —this wasn’t the end of things.

"Speaking of experience," Angelina said, oh-so-casually, "how's Viktor?"

"I never _slept_ with Viktor, as you know perfectly well. And he's just fine—spends a lot of time tracking down De—ah, dark wizards," she clenched her teeth, trying to force the words out, "who made it past the Bulgarian border."

She felt Fred's eyes on her and glanced at him, swallowing thickly.

"I'm _fine,_ " she said, under her breath.

He nodded once. "I know." The assurance in his voice settled her.

Lee, however, seemed to note her discomfort and take another tack—distraction. He gave a low whistle that drew her gaze. "I can't _believe_ you never tried it on with him. Now _he's_ a fit wizard."

Fred gasped, flinging his good arm up at his chest with a muffled _thump_. "I'm hurt!"

"You will be," Angelina chided, "if you re-break your ribs."

"Nah, I've got Healer Granger to patch me up." He shot a wink Hermione's way, which she ignored.

"We did—er, kiss once," Hermione offered. At the sudden flurry of looks, mostly at Fred—an arched eyebrow from Angelina, and giddy glee from Lee—she added, "Viktor, that is. Just before he left. It was… not bad, I think."

"Not bad! It was _gorgeous,_ the way you told it." Angelina wiggled in her seat as she poured another generous shot of Firewhiskey into her teacup. Come to think of it, Hermione wondered, had she ever put any _tea_ in? "Go on, tell them what he said, Hermione!"

"Yes, do tell!" Fred shifted forward, chin resting on his hand while he batted his eyelashes over at her. The effect was somewhat dampened by his inability to lean close; he still didn't have much mobility in his back.

Now she could feel her blush fully taking over her cheeks. It was an oddly unfamiliar sensation, talking about boys. At least, like this—she'd never had conversations like this one with Harry or Ron. Only Angelina, and occasionally Sophie. There had never been any _men_ present.

And certainly not anyone as experienced as Fred or Lee.

But she didn’t see that she had much choice. "Only if you promise to lay back and _stop moving,_ " she replied, pressing Fred's shoulder until he was forced to lean into the pillows that crowded his creaky old headboard.

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, far too cheerful for her liking. His eyes were still wide and innocent as he looked up at her. "I can be good."

Lee laughed. " _Bollocks_."

"He said—now, _don't_ laugh," Hermione warned, waiting for the boys to settle. “He said that we should meet at the statue of Gregory the Smarmy at dawn." Actually, she reflected, she'd had to infer most of that, since Viktor hadn't known the precise name of the statue—he just called it The Bald One and asked to meet her there at first light. "So, we met on his last day, and he took my hand, and he—"

Hermione looked down into her cup of tea, pulse thumping unevenly. She could feel everyone’s attention like a tangible weight, pressing against her.

"He said," she repeated, clearing her throat, "that he wanted to kiss a smile onto my beautiful lips." Across the bed, Angelina was _giddy,_ barely able to hold back her girlish squeal. She'd reacted approximately the same the first time Hermione had told her, the day before the end of term and the Durmstrang students shipped out. Fred and Lee were a bit less dramatic in their reactions.

Fred just cocked an eyebrow. "Why would we laugh at that?"

"Because it's nonsense!" Hermione laughed. "'Beautiful lips,' my arse. It was the clearest English he'd ever spoken, so either he was faking his poor English all that time, or he was quite familiar with those words in _that_ order." She shook her head, smiling widely at the memory. "He just wanted to butter me up."

"Bet it worked," chuckled Lee.

"Oh, it _absolutely_ worked. I was smitten until I worked it out." She took another dignified sip of tea. "And, of course, neither of us ever mentioned it again, so it's entirely possible that my 'beautiful lips' were a disappointment." She shrugged. "Ah, well. Teenage crushes are always short-lived."

She couldn't quite read Lee's expression as he spoke. "Usually, yeah."

“Oh, I dunno—take George and Angie, for example.” Fred began listing off the teenage sweethearts they’d known who seemed built to last. When he mentioned Ron and Lavender, Hermione snorted aloud.

From there, the conversation devolved in a predictable pattern.

Angelina was as generous in refilling Lee's teacup as she’d been with her own, and while Fred was sober as a stone, he had what seemed to be an innate ability to match almost any level of energy—the higher the better—even from bed. He made Angelina laugh until alcohol nearly came out of her nose, and Hermione realized, then and there, that she was really, truly happy that she'd befriended the three people in the room with her.

Harry and Ron, they were her brothers. Closer than. Bonded by necessity and hardship. But Fred, Angelina, even Lee—they'd _chosen_ to befriend her. To take awkward interruptions and turn them into something she'd never had before.

Something good.

Hermione looked across the room at Lee, and the way he bent carefully over Fred's bedside. At Angelina, whose smile flickered like a candle in the room, shedding easy light.

And at Fred, who—her throat clenched—was so miraculously alive.

Strangely, as the afternoon wore on and their chatter continued, Hermione thought she was the happiest she'd ever been.


	14. The time for old time's sake.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to form and a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends, i am sorry to say this is going to be the last chapter i post for a few days. i have to leave town for a funeral. once again, thank you for your patience and forgive any mistakes i might've overlooked.
> 
> p.s. i hope you enjoy this chapter. it's sort of a big one, i think.

She hadn't _actually_ expected her patrols to come up with anything that evening. Since the dormitories had been modified to allow the so-called Eighth Years their privacy, she’d only rarely found any of her peers out of bed. Perhaps they weren’t always in their _respective_ beds, but that wasn’t something she had any interest in investigating.

As for the younger students, so few of them seemed to have any interest in breaking the rules this term.

Perhaps, she'd reasoned with a shudder, it was a residual fear of facing punishment. Memories of the Carrows—the detentions, the torment and indignities they'd inflicted on the students in the year she'd spent away—were still alive and well, causing an unprecedented amount of visits to the Hospital Wing for Madam Pomfrey’s special brews of Dreamless Sleep. Night terrors seemed to be all too common among the student body.

It was certainly the reason why Hermione volunteered for every patrol she possibly could.

In truth, she'd grown so used to sharing a tent with Harry and Ron—and then a bed with Ginny, at the Burrow—that being alone in her bedroom felt _wrong._ The silence of her room made her skin crawl, pressing down on her like the weight of a dozen wards. Often, she would wake in the night to find the stillness even more complete, having cast layer upon layer of silencing and disillusionment charms in her sleep. And some mornings, she would emerge from murky slumber to find she'd overslept, her Muggle alarm clock blaring outside the circle of her spells, unheard.

She came to loathe being alone in her dorm, and found opportunities to avoid it—and to avoid sleep altogether. The reinstatement of her position as a Prefect was a useful distraction, and offered something to occupy the long hours of the night.

Hermione was surprised, however, when she actually _heard_ something during her routine patrol. Something quite distinct and quite impossible. She dismissed the thought out of hand—that it might be him.

She was hearing things. After a summer sharing a house, her mind was simply supplying the sounds she was used to.

She could even admit that it might be wishful thinking—in a place so altered as Hogwarts now seemed, a bit of old mischief seemed like just the thing.

But it couldn’t actually _be_ him. So, the stubborn witch elected to ignore the sound and keep walking.

And then she heard a new noise—one that she couldn't positively identify as his, or as anyone else's. A groan, which sounded so fractured that she could almost perceive it as one of pain. Even muffled by the door of the broom closet, it was a frantic, desperate, echoing sound, and her pulse ticked, speeding behind her ribs.

She whipped her wand out and held it to the door handle, muttering, " _Alohomora._ " It flew open and she peered inside, not thinking twice—if someone was hurt, or panicking, or lost, she was there to help.

But, it seemed, her help wasn't required in this particular circumstance.

Hermione had seen things, of course, in her years as a Prefect. She wasn't a total innocent—not by any means. And Fred had unwittingly provided her with some level of education in this particular matter, though she hadn't always been an enthusiastic—or even _wanted_ —participant. She'd seen him shifting between a girl's parted thighs, movements sharp and urgent. She'd seen the broad expanse of his bare back, bent as he lined Lee's neck with kisses. Hell, she'd seen the shape of—well, _him_ —outlined under a blanket.

All sorts of things.

But _this._

This, she had never seen.

In the near-darkness, she could just about make out a tall, long-limbed body, stretched out against the shelving. The pose was one of both lethargic ease and taut tension, and this conflict made itself most known in the angle of the head: thrown back, neck extended. Almost slack, but with each tendon standing out like a brushstroke in an oil painting.

Jaw tight, lips just parted—barely wide enough for a groan to scrape out. One large hand was braced against the nearest shelf, as much for balance as to give an outlet to the strain he was apparently feeling. Close to an invisible edge.

Hermione blinked, and the full picture came into focus—because there was someone on their knees in front of him. Someone who had dark robes and cropped hair, though she obviously couldn't see their face, because it was pressed against a strip of pale abdomen that all but glowed in the dimness.

Perhaps she should've noticed _that_ person first, but she'd been momentarily caught up in the body-wide expression of ecstacy, bordering on pain, that was evident in every line of the taller, more familiar party.

Because she knew that jaw. That throat. When his head rolled forward and his dark eyes caught hers—lips still parted, expression hungry—she knew those parts, too. It was difficult to identify when they'd become so familiar, even down to their minutest details, but the fact remained that she _could_ identify him. Easily.

" _What_ are you doing here?" she asked, somewhat shakily. She didn't know what to do with her arms; instead of crossing, they hung numbly at her sides. Her skin felt hot.

The sharp vee shape of hips, descending inward. And a faint trail of hair glowing copper, like the shaft of an arrow—

Her voice froze the kneeler, who hissed. But it didn't stop a slow grin from trickling across Fred's face. He let out a slow breath, as though he was trying to contain something—establish a sense of control over something.

Something she hadn’t ever felt for herself.

She shifted. Hermione felt an ache bloom in her belly.

"Granger," he sighed, stretching the syllables out into something sticky and dark. And then he let out one short, husky laugh as he moved to help the robed figure off of their knees. "I should've known you'd find us. Old time's sake and all that. All right, mate?" He turned his attention fully to the other person—a man, by the looks of him, who was slimmer than Fred. Almost waifish. He ducked his dark head immediately into Fred's shoulder, hiding his face.

She would've almost imagined the young man to be Harry, except he was too tall. That, and Harry was arse over teakettle for Ginny, who he'd spent the entire summer repeatedly proposing to, without result.

"S'okay, Theo," Fred said softly, his voice a low babble, comforting the person huddled against him. _Theodore Nott,_ she worked out, quickly placing the dark hair and willowy figure. He'd been one of the few Slytherins to come back.

And Fred—the very _essence_ of a Gryffindor, who once would've spat in a Slytherin's face before sleeping with one—only wrapped his arms tighter around Theo, holding him to himself.

Maybe the war had changed him more than she thought.

Once again, Hermione felt an odd ache deep in her body. It was the pain of discovering something new when she thought she had a problem all worked out. The unique hurt of new, sudden growth.

This person she'd known almost her whole life had such a capacity for gentleness—more than she'd ever suspected, even during his softest moments. At his most kind. _My brother's a git, you know._ Smiling through a split lip on a battlefield. His hand curled around hers atop a hospital bed, stationary and safe.

Even then, she'd not understood the depth of it. Any of it.

And she didn't know what to _do_ with that knowledge. How she ought to cope.

But Fred was still speaking, his voice hushed and gentle. "Granger won't say anything."

"What, about you shagging in the cupboard?" she said, working to sound like the disapproving Prefect she was supposed to be.

His eyes met hers, heavy with intention. "About him shagging a _bloke_ in the cupboard."

_Oh._

She'd never given much thought to the fact that Fred seemed to play for more than one team. After all this time, she'd come to understand that to him, people were probably just people. Pleasure was just pleasure. Love was just—

But seeing the flash of warning in his eyes made her realize that it probably hadn't always been that easy for him, being so open and obvious. At some point, he must have received some level of pushback, or been treated with some amount of harshness. That she'd never seen it was probably mere coincidence—an example of the space between their two lives.

The way he curled protectively around Theo— _Theodore Nott,_ she once again boggled—told her that he understood something she fundamentally did not.

And it made her writhe inside with a sudden, righteous fury.

 _Who_ would _dare?_

Her personal feelings about Nott aside—her confusion when it came to Fred _aside_ —

"No," she agreed, voice ringing with honesty. "I won't tell anyone. What you do, who you—"

_Love._

She shook her head, discarding the word. No, Fred and Theo weren't in love.

They couldn't be.

He _couldn't_ be in love with anyone.

Because—

_Oh._

Her throat closed in on itself, stopping the realization cold. She could only take so much awakening in one night. _No._

Hermione swallowed. "That's your business, Theo. No one else's." Her voice sounded very far away.

Fred was looking at her over Theo's head, though the young man was almost as tall as him, and there was… something in his expression. Something like gratitude. It reminded her that she wasn't part of this—that it wasn't about her or her feelings. Hermione nodded, scraping together the tatters of her usual authoritative demeanor.

"I'll leave you to it. But you _need_ to be gone by the time I patrol this corridor again." Fred nodded his understanding. "About twenty minutes."

"Won't need half that. I sneaked in, and I can sneak back out, no trouble." He sounded like his usual cheerful self, but the dark light in his eyes gave away the presence of something else. _Worry,_ she thought instinctively. He was still worried. About Theo? About _her,_ telling someone? She couldn’t tell, and she couldn’t ask either. Not now.

"You have it anyway," she promised. "More, if I can spare it."

Hermione realized she was blocking the door—that Fred was standing there with his trousers open and another person in his arms—that she had once again intruded, and was now keeping everyone from just getting on with it.

With one final, apologetic look, Hermione stepped back and pulled the door closed. She didn't re-lock it, but she did cast a silencing spell about the door, just in case.

She imagined he could probably finish less than twenty minutes.

And then she kicked herself for imagining.

 _No,_ she thought. _No._


	15. The time at the engagement party.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets her worst shock yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your patience while i took a little break from writing. i really needed it. hopefully you enjoy this chapter, even though... well, you'll see.
> 
> (just trust me.)

She decided within the first fifteen minutes that a combination of Firewhiskey and avoiding Fred Weasley was the only way she'd be getting through this party.

It wasn't that she _wasn't_ happy for Ron and Lavender. She was. She absolutely was.

Did she _happen_ to think that they were acting rather rashly and moving altogether too fast—that they ought to wait until they'd at _least_ finished school to announce their engagement? Of _course_ she did! But then, her model of a happy marriage was based almost entirely off of her parents, who hadn't even _met_ until they were in their thirties, with medical school and established dental practices behind them.

She had a profound, deeply-rooted respect for slow, methodical progression through a relationship.

Not that she'd ever had an opportunity to actually _move through_ that progression.

She felt she'd always been at the fringes of other love stories—someone for Ginny to be jealous of, for a time; an unknowing rival for Ron's attention; and then there was… whatever role she'd played in Fred's many conquests.

But she refused to follow that particular train of thought again.

She was a slow, methodical sort of person. When she fell in love with someone, she'd always intended to do it _properly_ —with her eyes open. She’d never had any interest in Ron's "it's just chemical, it can't be helped" nonsense, or Lavender's soppy, clinging attempts at getting someone's attention.

Granted, it had worked. Lavender had secured the man of her dreams, and now they were looking onward into their happily ever after. And Hermione did try to be hopeful they would get it, rather than doubtful that they would be able to maintain it, once they’d found it.

She wished them happy, as much for Lavender’s sake as Ron’s.

Because now that Lavender no longer felt her to be a threat, the other witch was downright _pleasant_ to Hermione, thanking her endlessly for helping "her Ronald" stay safe on the run. She'd had tears in her eyes when she brought up the splinching accident, and Ron's scars, and she’d taken Hermione’s hand in her own: a silent apology for years of antagonism.

It seemed that the war had changed Lavender Brown, much as it had changed Hermione herself. She was probably never going to get on _well_ with the witch, but she could appreciate Lavender’s tenacity—the fact that she'd known what she wanted, and she'd gone for it with all her might.

Hermione, on the other hand, had no _idea_ what she wanted.

 _Except,_ she thought, meandering toward the kitchen, _another drink._

However, there was an obstacle. Such a predictable obstacle, too.

The moment she rounded the corner, she saw them: a witch, sat up on the kitchen table with her legs around a wizard, who was leaning in close, hand tenderly resting on her waist. _Angelina,_ she placed, and for a horrified moment, she thought she'd walked in on George mid-snog, which was, for some unknown reason, inexpressibly nauseating.

But the truth was almost worse: Angelina was very much snogging _Fred._ Even through the curtain of Angelina’s hair, Hermione could tell it was him.

His low, husky hum. The way he seemed to _enjoy_ towering over Angelina, as he did with all the others—using his height to his advantage. The part of his hair, the way it fell more to one side.

All Fred.

Since finding him in the broom closet, Hermione hadn't caught him anywhere else around the castle, despite her routine patrols. It was mostly a relief, if she was honest; eventually, she would've _had_ to report him for breaking into a school, where students were _supposed_ to be safe in their beds. But there was also a part of her that maintained a mild, constant current of distress— _not_ curiosity—about what he was getting up to, beyond the castle walls.

Was he well? Was he safe? Was he somewhere else, being caught by someone else?

Of all the things she'd contemplated, Hermione had _never_ imagined him taking up with his brother's girl. She hadn't even imagined him _capable_ of it. He and George were so close—as close as only twins could be. She couldn't fathom what would provoke him to hurt his brother in such a way. She couldn't _believe_ it.

But she also couldn't ignore the evidence of her eyes.

Setting her jaw, Hermione suddenly felt a sharp, unwanted sense of vindication; this was only an affirmation of her choice not to get involved with him today.

 _Or, it seems, ever again._ The thought made her stomach roll.

She would, she determined, say _nothing._ She would sneak around the table to the counter where Lavender had set up an elaborate cocktail bar, pour herself another—very generous—glass of Firewhiskey, and then she would just—return to the party. If she was lucky, they wouldn't even notice her.

This wasn’t her business.

 _He_ wasn't her business.

And Angelina—her _friend_ —

Hermione shut that thought down entirely. Angelina had always made her own choices, and this was no different.

But she was glad she'd shed her shoes earlier in the afternoon. It would keep her from pitching the low, thick heels right at their heads.

Even in December, the Burrow was sweltering, thanks to a blazing fire and too many bodies. On bare feet, she padded quietly over the warm tile, past the snogging couple— _right there in the open,_ she sniped to herself, _and on the dining table, where we eat!_ —and she was really right on the point of changing her plan, snatching the whole bottle and stealing out with it, when there was a commotion in the doorway.

"Oi, has anybody seen—oh, that's just _lovely._ "

Her heart sank. _George._

Hermione turned just in time to see the couple pull apart—not urgently, not even the slightest bit guiltily. Her fist clenched around the Firewhiskey bottle, and her stomach began to churn painfully. They were _shameless._ How could they be so _obvious?_ Her lip trembled, and she bit it.

"I know we said we'd take a little time, but isn't this a bit much?" George's voice was as tight as she'd ever heard it.

Fred was the one with the temper and everyone knew it, but right now, the younger twin sounded like he was right on the edge of real, terrible anger. But Hermione’s mind caught on the words _a little time._

Angelina spoke up immediately, legs falling away from Fred's hips. "A little time?" She scoffed, seeming not so much confused as provoked. "Right. How _much_ time, George?"

Fred, Hermione noticed, was looking quite tense in the shoulders, like he was trying to appear very calm, but wasn’t managing it quite right. His face may not have given much away to George, but he was shifting a bit between Angelina's legs, like he did when he was feeling impatient. It was clear he was having a difficult time staying silent.

George's sigh was much easier to interpret, as was the way his hands wiped down over his face. "Circe's tits. I said 'not right now.' I didn't say 'not ever,' and you _know_ it."

Hermione was beginning to think she was missing some crucial information. _A little time?_ Were they not together, then? She had her suspicions, which Angelina confirmed.

"You _said,_ " the witch began, and Hermione felt suddenly very sorry for George, because she knew _precisely_ what was about to happen.

Angelina had a prodigious memory—she could memorize anything, from Quidditch plays to lengthy Arithmantic equations—and it was clear that George's _exact_ words were about to be quoted back at him. What's more, he would probably _not_ like what she had to say.

"You _said,_ George, that we would get married—and I quote—" _and there it is,_ "'when the business is back on its feet and profitable.' Well, you've been in the black for _months_ now, and you have continued to avoid the subject! You’ve asked for time, and I’ve given it to you, even though you _know_ how important this is to me—"

"Bollocks!" George cried, stepping closer. Fred didn't move, keeping himself firmly planted in front of Angelina, and Hermione felt an awful itch in her fingers; she wanted so badly to reach out and grab him and drag him bodily away from the fight that seemed about to unfold.

"It's important to your _parents_ ," George continued. "You said yourself that it's a bullshit institution designed to subjugate women and keep them in the home! You _said_ you were focusing on your Quidditch career, on training, and that we could take things slow. You said that you were _happy._ And I believed you!" His ears were pink. "I believed what _you_ told me—and when you told me I could have some time to think, I believed that, too! What I _can't_ believe," he growled, "is that you've _actually_ taken up again with my—ginormous—prat—of a brother!"

George's voice was now approaching a volume that would surely start to garner attention from the rest of the party. Hermione reflexively took a breath—not even knowing what she'd _say_ with it _—_ only she didn't get the chance, because George's eyes had already found her.

"And _you_ ," he snapped irritably. "You're _okay_ with this?"

Hermione looked at George. At Angelina. At Fred, but only for a second—long enough to see him turn, taking in her presence. His eyes widened fractionally. He clearly hadn't noticed her before, or expected her to be here.

Not that it would’ve made a difference. He’d already made the choice; she was just witnessing it. As always.

She looked back at George. "Why would it matter what I think? It's not—” and she fought back the reflex to swallow down the lie. “This has nothing to do with me."

To her surprise, Angelina was the one to react: she gave a loud, rolling laugh that Hermione had only ever heard a few times, in response to the most absurd of jokes. Her friend’s head tilted back as she broke down into more laughter, and then she dropped forward, her forehead resting in the curve of Fred's shoulder as she giggled.

Hermione blinked.

Finally— _finally_ —Fred spoke up. His voice was coarse, as if he was very, very tired. "I think that's enough of the hysterics, Georgie. We both know you've got a ring in your pocket and you're just scared to give it to her. You needed the push. Ange, babe—much as I _love_ being used by you, and believe me," he said emphatically, patting her back, “I do—it’s time for you two to talk.”

The room felt so still and silent in that moment. The sound of chatter went on outside, and Hermione realized that George must've cast a _Muffliato_ or something before entering. There was no other reason they'd gotten away with this conversation for so long.

"You two _planned_ this.” George sighed.

Fred, of course, began nodding. "So, brother mine," he finished, rather grandly considering he had lipstick on his cheek, "I think you ought to man up and come get your girl."

George was shaking his head in something like awe. "Me, man up? At least I've _talked_ to the girl I plan to marry."

Hermione's eyes flashed to Fred, looking for some sort of reaction—a flicker, anything. At the present angle, he looked completely unmoved. Whatever George thought he knew...

But Angelina had made a small, strangled noise at George's words. "You—wait, you _actually_ want to—" and then the witch was shoving Fred aside, skidding down off the table. Her dress was a rumpled mess, the silk all stretched out of shape by Fred's hands. But her stride was confident as she moved across the kitchen, swallowing the space between herself and her wizard.

Hermione's heart was in her throat.

"Of course, Lina," George said, his voice so soft and quiet—only for them.

For the hundredth time, Hermione felt like an intruder, and she would've gone, except they were _blocking the exit._ She backed herself further against the counter, knuckles white around the glass bottle she somehow had managed not to drop in her shock.

"I always planned to, _eventually._ Only it's bad form to steal someone else's thunder. I wanted to wait until Ickle Ronniekins had got his dream wedding." He gave a crooked smile as he reached up to tuck a braided lock behind Angelina's ear, which had come loose—probably due to Fred's efforts. “But it seems I’ve been out-maneuvered.”

Hermione peevishly thought that Fred had perhaps played his role in this little scene with an _unnecessary_ amount of enthusiasm.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was that George was _smiling._ And so was Angelina. She was practically _glowing_ with it.

And then he was pulling something from his pocket. A box, which looked as if it had, at one point, housed some sort of joke sweet. Probably one of his Puking Pastilles, Hermione observed. But now, the contents—and George's intent—were unmistakable. He held it between him and Angelina like one might hold a captured Snitch: triumphant.

"I was happy," she said shakily. "I _am_ happy. But with my family… I was just—"

"Worried he'd never grow the necessary stones?" Fred piped up from where he leaned against the table. "He didn't. He bought them from a goblin jeweler—"

Acting on some kindly—or perhaps just desperate—impulse, Hermione stepped forward and jabbed the mouthy wizard firmly in the ribs.

“You realize this was an awful idea,” she said, _sotto voce._

He whispered back, “I mean, we weren’t _actually_ snogging—”

“Literally the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of.”

He went quiet—thank Merlin for small mercies—but he did shoot a wink down at her, looking as smug as if he'd known things would turn out this way all along. Perhaps he had. As usual, the look did something just _awful_ to her insides, and Hermione wondered how she'd ever misunderstood the gymnastics her organs seemed intent on performing when he was around.

And then, trapped in the corner of the kitchen, with Fred only a few inches from her elbow and half a bottle of Firewhiskey un-drunk in her hand—which she would _absolutely_ be needing later—Hermione stood in silence and watched a prankster get down on one knee in front of the love of his life... and propose.

Angelina's braids flashed pink when she slid the ring on, and her cheeks were round and soft from smiling. George didn't mention the hair, and he gave Hermione a pleading look—a look that said, _Let me have this._

So, she did. Compared to pretending to snog George’s twin brother, the pink was a very gentle sort of payback. And anyway, the colour looked lovely with Angelina's dress.

When the pair finally kissed, something in Hermione snapped. A wrenching in her chest. George and Angelina were so caught up in one another that she was _sure_ they wouldn't notice her slipping by, so she shoved the bottle into Fred's hands, mumbled something that she _hoped_ sounded congratulatory, and darted out of the room.

“Granger!”

She made straight for the fireplace, ignoring Fred’s voice. It had become clear that even with Firewhiskey and the best of intentions, she couldn't make it through this.

Maybe, months ago, she might’ve been able to _deal_ with it all. But not now.

Not with—the way she felt.

Without so much as a goodbye, Hermione grabbed a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and disappeared.


	16. The last time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With graduation behind her, Hermione is _determined_ to move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squeak*
> 
> i've bumped the chapter count _yet again_ , guys. this one was originally quite long, so i decided to split it and give the next (and penultimate, i promise) chapter a bit of extra polishing. hope you don't mind, and i also hope that you enjoy this one. we're so close to the end...

The Leaky Cauldron was, as usual, loud _._ Loud and _packed._

For once, Hermione wasn't all that bothered by the press of bodies and the noise and the band giving it their all on the stage. For all it reminded her of the Yule Ball, the remembrance _now_ —with a wealth of time and distance between herself and the event—was almost _pleasant._

Maybe because it had ended well; she’d always liked happy endings.

Rather than a humiliating memory, that night—the tears, the ache in her feet, the whirl of dancers, laughing with Fred and Angelina—was just a fleeting moment from her school years.

Her brow furrowed. _Her school years._

Which were now over.

It had been a hard road to the end of her Eighth Year—difficult in ways she wouldn't have predicted. Thankfully, her insomnia had faded a little as she’d re-adjusted to normal life, but she couldn't really recapture what it had been like _before._ What had made her love school so much that she’d spend every spare second working to earn the approval of her teachers. Now, grappling for house points felt rather silly. Getting high marks felt… hollow.

Her internal conflict made the ending of her time at Hogwarts feel bittersweet. Hermione imagined that all students felt this way when leaving their cherished institutions, on some level, but Hogwarts had been more than just a school to her—it had been, from that first day, a place where she could be herself. Hogwarts had been the first place to embrace her as a witch. And to lose that was uniquely painful.

At times, the school had been her refuge. A safe harbour. Then, it had been something to fight for and defend. Once she'd left to hunt Horcruxes with Harry and Ron, it had felt like a memory so distant as to be nearly fantasy. It was an idyll, rose-coloured and warm, made of only the best, most magical parts of her experience.

Even now, with the benefit of hindsight, Hogwarts was the place where she had grown into herself—into a powerful witch. Into a woman.

It was the place where she'd fallen—

But, no. She wasn't thinking about that. Not tonight, anyway.

Hogwarts, she tried to tell herself, was ultimately just a place. It couldn't protect her from her bad memories, or from the lurking sense of dissatisfaction she’d felt when she woke up in the morning, alone again, and wanting something she couldn't have. She could leave it behind.

She could leave… _things_ behind. And look forward—to whatever was coming next. She hadn’t exactly made her mind up yet, which shocked nearly everyone she told. Except—

"You look miserable," came Harry's brusque voice, interrupting her reverie as he slid up beside her onto a neighboring barstool. With his familiar, wry _I'm the Boy Who Lived, but don't worry about it too much_ smile, he signaled Tom for another Butterbeer.

Hermione shrugged. "No, not miserable. Just… maudlin, I suppose." She swirled the golden fairy wine in her glass and tried not to slouch against the sticky bartop.

"What's the difference?" He was teasing, but Harry was always a bit lost when it came to what he called her “vocabulary words.”

"I’m drinking," she answered honestly. "And I'm feeling nostalgic."

As Tom set down Harry’s Butterbeer with an unwieldy _clack,_ her best friend nodded in sympathy. "It’s weird to think that we’ve graduated, isn’t it? All that work, just to end up drinking with the other degenerates at the Leaky.” He nudged her shoulder, and she managed a halfhearted laugh. But Hermione was unsurprised at his perceptiveness. His voice lowered as he said, "It makes sense that you'll miss it. Hogwarts was home, for better or worse."

Harry’s expression—full of wistfulness, the distance of one lost in memory—made her heart ache for him.

He would miss it, too. And he, of all people, had understood her uncertainty as to how to move forward. Things had been so much worse for him—before Hogwarts, before magic. And leaving had to feel so much more _difficult,_ when the school was the only real home he'd ever known.

She could still remember how it felt, that first time, to step into the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast. Most of the first years had been so awed by the ceiling, staring up at it with their mouths agape, that there had been a few minor collisions. Bodies bumping, mumbled apologies. Everyone transfixed by the illusory sky. She remembered the pride she’d felt in her crisp black robes—in her ability to recite _Hogwarts: A History,_ cover to cover.

She remembered how _much_ she wanted to find her place there, and then how it felt to be offered the chance to go anywhere—to any house—and to _choose_ Gryffindor, with the strangest sense that it would be the making of her. She’d wanted friends that would stand with her through anything.

And that was just what she’d gotten. As Harry said— _for better or worse._

Reaching across the bar, Hermione pulled Harry’s hands from his pint and into hers. The fairy wine shimmered in her belly. "Let's never grow up, Harry," she said with a wobbly smile. "Let's be those kids who knocked out a mountain troll forever."

He laughed—a low, sad sound—and squeezed her fingers. "It's too late, Hermione. I think we grew up ages ago." Harry looked around the bar, and her own eyes had no choice but to follow.

Lavender and Ron, swaying to the music, engagement rings shining on their fingers. Neville, cracking jokes with Dean and Seamus over his drink, looking more like a grown man than a recent graduate. Ginny, who was doing shots of rum, presumably in competition with the twins—who were dumping their drinks into the nearby plant, the dirty cheats.

Hermione felt her lips lift in a smile. Maybe they all hadn't grown up _entirely._ But her smile was feeble, and it slipped away entirely when Fred looked up from his emptying his drink into a nearby plant—eyes searching the room, for who or what she couldn't say.

They hadn't really talked since the engagement party. To her way of thinking, it would just be too difficult.

When had everything gotten so complicated?

Harry was right; their childhood was long gone, left behind within the walls of Hogwarts. Or, at least, somewhere in the nebulous past where they couldn't reclaim it.

"Well," Hermione sighed, taking a deep sip of her fairy wine, which glowed with gold bubbles. It was like champagne—bright and effervescent on her tongue, and before she knew it, she'd drained the glass. "I guess there are _some_ upsides to adulthood,” she gestured with the empty flute, smacking her lips. “Dance with me?"

Harry drained his Butterbeer, too, and led her out onto the makeshift dance floor. With a smile on his face, he twirled her as she hadn't done in ages, her dress flying out around her knees in saffron waves. In amongst the crush, she felt surprisingly buoyant—or perhaps it was the wine, lightening her feet. Either way, she let herself dance, and laugh, and have this moment with the boy who had been there for every awkward stage of her adolescence. Who had been her fastest and firmest friend. And who, like her, was now adrift.

But at least, she thought, they were drifting together.

They danced until her feet hurt and until his eyes wandered to Ginny often enough to make him clumsy, nearly crushing her sore toes with his shiny dress shoes. "Sorry," he said, sheepish—and still staring at Ginny. Maybe he wasn’t drifting; maybe he knew exactly where he was headed.

Hermione laughed, releasing her arms from around him. " _Go,_ " she commanded. "Go before you do me real bodily harm." As Harry lurched off in Ginny's direction, Neville swept in, confidently claiming her for a dance. He was surprisingly adept, though she probably _shouldn't_ have been surprised; he'd changed so much in the year she was gone. When her feet were once more threatening to emancipate themselves from her shoes, he gallantly helped her limp back to the bar and bought her a drink. And then, when she finished it, another.

Ginny, of course, was absolutely pissed, and Harry wasn't far behind her. It seemed that the twins had shunted off after being accused— _rightly_ —of cheating, leaving the couple to sigh and swoon and sweet-talk over their Butterbeers in peace. Hermione thought the two were charming, in a nauseating sort of way, and she spent as much time making disgusted faces with Neville, Dean, and Seamus as she did egging on her besotted friends and trying to ignore one particular red head as it moved about the room.

She succeeded tolerably well.

In fact, by midnight, Hermione was feeling downright _jolly._ Light, and a bit hazy at the edges. "See, Hermione," Harry laughed, "the carousing did you some good! Not feeling mob—mog— _er_ —"

"Maudlin," she finished for him, snickering into her Gigglewater. Their conversation hadn't been all that funny or clever for quite some time, but the Gigglewater was doing what it did best. "No, definitely not. However, I _am_ feeling—a little—"

As she got to her feet, the world tilted the tiniest bit underneath her. A murmur rose up as a plethora of arms stretched out to steady her, but she caught herself on the bar. Her heels must’ve really had it out for her tonight.

She grinned. "Tipsy. I'm for the loos."

"Need me t' come?" Ginny generously offered. But she wouldn’t be much help; she wasn’t so much a person, at present, as a body of liquid, held together by Harry's protective arms.

"No, you stay put, Gin. Someone's got to hold Harry upright." The younger witch nodded sagely, as if this was her whole purpose in life, and pressed her cheek back to Harry's shoulder, where it likely wouldn't move until they returned to Grimmauld Place. Hermione couldn't help but be fond of the fiery-headed witch; she loved Harry with such an unwavering fierceness.

She'd thought it childish, once upon a time. But she knew better now. There was nothing braver than loving another person, openly and without apology.

Hermione made for the lavatory on increasingly steady feet. The more distance she put between herself and the Gigglewater fumes, the more she felt like her old self. Albeit, a more cheerful version. She hummed along with the tune that played—an old Weird Sisters track that she could distantly remember Sophie singing and dancing to in their dorm. _When all is dark and there’s no light, lost in the deepest star of night_ —

She reached for the doorknob, only to have it ripped away.

— _I see you._

“Granger!”

He sounded so cheerful that she had to blink several times in order for the haze of his happiness to dispel.

He came into focus slowly, and then all at once.

It was the same old story. Mussed hair. Berry-red lipstick smeared at the corner of his mouth; _someone_ had been sloppy with their beauty charms tonight. His shirtsleeves were cuffed around his elbows—small wonder, with the Leaky being so bloody warm—but the ones down the front were still crisp and untouched.

_Just snogging, then._

How horrifying was it that she could tell? She could _always_ tell.

“Hi, Fred,” she said weakly. “Nice colour. Looks good on you.” She didn’t try to brush past him, on the assumption that she’d only bump into whoever had given him that lipstick smear.

He cocked his head, plainly not understanding her. Come to think of it, he _did_ look a bit glassy-eyed. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely cheating at the drinking game.

“Lipstick,” she said, gesturing to her own lips.

“Yeah, ’s lovely,” he said, eyes dropping to her lips. He sounded rather quizzical, and the faint wrinkle that materialized between his brows made her giggle.

“No, you have—”

Hermione wanted to reach up and get it herself, but the very _thought_ made her heart hammer against her ribs, beating out a tattoo: _danger, danger._

Overhead, the Weird Sisters went on singing. _I’ve got to get to grips, I don’t want to feel like this_ … Their words sounded far away.

“Oh!” He laughed. “Right. ‘Course.” He really must’ve been drunker than he looked, because his mouth split in a wide grin as he scrubbed his hand across his face. Which only made things worse. Now the streak of burgundy stretched across his cheek, staining the stubble near his jaw.

“ _Honestly,_ ” she sighed. _Just do it. It doesn't mean anything. It never has._

Rolling up onto her toes, she reached for his face, painfully aware of the familiarity of the gesture. She’d done it ten times if she’d done it once—always trying to fix him up, make him look presentable on his way out of some encounter or another.

It was an odd choice, of course—not exactly her responsibility to take on—but she rarely stopped to question _why_ she kept making it.

At first, it felt like she’d taken Fred’s absurdity on like she had everything else: something she did because it needed to be done, and nobody else would do it. A necessary burden—a minor irritation. Harry didn’t study; Ron needed constant attention; Fred needed someone to toss him out of broom cupboards and, apparently, prevent him ruining other people's proposals.

But then—she had, at some indefinable point, come to expect him around every corner, disheveled and smiling. She expected to find him tucked in alleys and alcoves, behind bookshelves, curled up in the common room. She expected to see him in every room of the Burrow, in Diagon Alley, at home in Hampstead, in the bare corners of her own bedroom. And when he wasn’t there…

She was disappointed.

He had, somehow, become a fixture in her life. Him and his exploits and his impulsivity. Same as everyone else—Harry, Ron, her parents. An intrinsic piece.

Not her piece, though.

Her thumb brushed the corner of his lips, and she applied more pressure than she needed to, chafing at the pigment that stained his skin. It should’ve felt infantilizing, parental. It didn’t. It felt _agonizing._

The force of her scrubbing rocked her body forward. Bracing herself against his shoulder, Hermione chided herself for drinking so much—it lowered her guard, let her brain run rampant when it ought to be tightly controlled.

But her pulse raced on, keeping her conscious of the small space between their bodies.

She felt muscle and bone shift beneath her palm, beneath his thin shirt. He was warm to the touch. She wanted to dig her fingers in deeper, to hold on. She wanted to _know—_

“Why was it never me?”

Hermione froze in her movements, recognising suddenly that those words were _hers_ —that she had spoken them aloud, given form to a question that she’d been trying not to ask—not even of herself—for so long. It was petty, and stupid, and like scratching at an old wound that had only healed over with the thinnest of scabs. Too much friction and she’d surely start to bleed. But—she also wanted to know the truth.

_Why was it never me?_

Because if she was honest…

If she was _really_ honest about it, it could’ve been her. Maybe not at first—but not long after, either.

And yet, he had _never_ made so much as a suggestion. Not one time. In all their years of knowing one another, of doing this little dance, he’d never even _looked_ at her with that sort of interest. He’d joked, maybe, but that was all.

It had always seemed like he’d go for anyone in the world, so long as they weren’t _her,_ and while she really couldn’t blame him for not wanting to get involved with his little brother’s best friend…

Well, he’d gone for more complicated people, hadn’t he? Angelina, who had always sort of carried a torch for George. Hermione's own roommate, despite how _rude_ that was. Theo, a boy who felt he had everything to lose by being caught—who was so scared that he’d _literally_ hidden his face. Fred had snogged and shagged and sweet-talked his way through so many awkward and impossible situations that, really, _she_ should barely register.

Which meant that it had to be something else. Something about her—her person, her personality, her _specifically._ And wasn’t that the worst of it?

She realized she wasn’t looking at him—that, in fact, she was looking at her thumb, which bore the streak of colour she’d wiped from his face. She stared at it until his hand came from somewhere and wrapped around her hand, around the exposed digit, swallowing her fingers in warmth.

When she managed to look him in the eye, she nearly lost her balance from looking up, up and had to look back down at her traitorous feet while he steadied her.

“Granger, you’re pissed as a newt.”

“Maybe," she agreed, chin bobbing. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know the answer.”

“The answer to _what?_ ”

“Why you never wanted me.” Inside, a little alarm went off: she sounded _pathetic._ Desperate, at the _very_ least. “I mean,” she tried, swallowing down the tumult of her emotions, “I just want to know, I guess, because it seems to _me_ like you like… variation.” Her eyes darted up again, wanting to take in his expression—see if he was offended. But he didn’t look offended so much as dumbstruck. She bit down on her bottom lip, hard. “But not, y'know… me. Not that I—I mean, I’m not _offended_. Just curious. In an academic sort of way.” She winced.

What was she _saying?_ But it was too late to go back. She tried to pull her hand away—to put some distance between her and what would no doubt become yet another mortifying memory, another time she’d almost ruined their odd little friendship—but he didn’t let her.

“Hang on,” Fred said, blinking once. And then twice. “Hang on.” His face went pale, and then a bit red, and she wondered if he was drunk enough to faint. That would be just her luck.

“Are you… having a turn or something?”

“No. Hang—no, like, hold on _properly._ ” Fred suddenly gripped her around the waist, and for one strange, stunning moment, she wondered if this was it—if she was going to end up on Fred’s lengthy kiss list because he thought she was just… _asking_ to be on it, when she wasn’t—she only wanted to _know_ —

And then, she felt the telltale tug behind her navel. The twisting sensation of being sucked inside-out and spat out elsewhere. A _crushing_ nausea.

Before reappearing in the middle of a dark room.


	17. The final confrontation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, everything comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends, i love how concerned you all were for our girl's wellbeing in the face of fred's reckless stupidity. don't worry, she's made of tough stuff!
> 
> so, presented without further comment and with much squealing: the penultimate chapter!

It took a moment to place it, what with the dizziness and the violent impulse to shove Fred clean off his feet, but they were in the middle of Fred’s old bedroom. Hermione keeled forward and caught herself against the iron frame of an old bed. “Did you just _Side-Along_ —while _drunk?_ ” Her voice was as shrill as the creaking metal. “Are you fucking _mental?_ ”

“Might be, yeah,” he replied curtly. “Also, I might be sick.”

“And it’d serve you right, you _arsehole._ You could’ve splinched us both!” Her arm was tremulous as she swiped at him, and it turned into more of a clutching motion, so she could keep her feet as she moved away from the bed.

Even in the dim moonlight that peered through the curtains, Fred looked pale, and she took pity on him. _Not for the first time,_ she grimaced, steadying herself enough to release her grip on his shirt. _And probably not the last._

Digging through her purse, she withdrew a little vial and shoved it into his hand. “Drink, you _idiot._ ”

He didn’t even look at it before cracking the seal and knocking the Sober-Up potion back. “Merlin, that’s minging,” he commented, wincing. No doubt, the headache-hangover part of the potion was hitting with full force. “Have you considered adding a bit of peppermint oil, to cover the—”

“Are you _seriously_ giving me a potions lecture right now?” she cried, putting her hand on her hip. “Because I would much prefer that you explain why you nearly _killed_ us in order to get—what, back to the Burrow?”

“That was an accident, actually. Got any more of that stuff?” he asked, either ignoring or unaware of her disapproval.

“What? No.”

Fred cocked his head to one side. “Why’d you give it to me, then?”

“Because—” _I'm in love with you, and I have a chronic need to put you first._ “—it's my bloody potion, and I'll do what I want with it! _And,_ " she cried, just for emphasis, "I want you to properly appreciate the precise tone and volume of my voice—when I start _shouting_ — _at_ — _you!_ ” She smacked his chest with the flat of her palm, which tingled and then ached with the force of her strike.

Gods, he was solid—the _twat._

And he was grinning, too, apparently having gotten through his hangover in record time.

He may bemoan the _taste_ of her Sober-Up, but he couldn’t doubt its efficacy.

“Brilliant,” he decreed. “Let’s do that downstairs.” And then he promptly pulled her out of his old bedroom and down the hall—the toes of her shoes clumsily catching on the uneven floorboards—and then down the stairs, which felt twice as dangerous when she was tipsy like this. He held her hand the whole way, and it really was _so_ warm—like sinking her hand into a bath—and she thought that this must be a nightmare.

How had her night gone _this_ wrong? First, she was asking completely inappropriate questions, and now _this?_ It was almost worse, actually, that he seemed to be ignoring what she’d so inelegantly brought up in favour of… whatever he was doing now.

“I think she keeps them… up here,” Fred muttered, mostly to himself, as he tugged her through the kitchen and toward the pantry. He reached the very top shelf and rooted around for a bit before crying out triumphantly. “Knew it! Same old hiding spot. My mum’s a _spectacular_ drunk, you should see… Once, George and I turned her water into Firewhiskey— _don’t_ look at me like that, Granger, we were _ten_ —and she got completely sozzled and burnt Sunday supper to a crisp. I mean, at the table.”

He laughed in that wild, carefree way he had, and Hermione just _stared,_ because—where was he going with this?

“We were all sitting there, and she just—set fire to the turkey she was trying to carve. Since then, she keeps a handy stock of Sober-Up, for emergencies.” He tossed her a vial that was similar to hers, only it had a faint greenish tinge. Smirking, he added, “I think being shouted at by Hermione Granger constitutes an emergency.”

With a dubious look at the vial—why was it _green?_ —Hermione decided that just about nothing could be worse than being drunk while he laughed at her, and she drained the little vial.

Oddly, it was delicious; it fizzed pleasantly on her tongue, sharp and bright with the taste of mint. Like she’d just brushed her teeth.

She licked her lips wonderingly. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“Told you, add a bit of peppermint oil. Two or three drops. Makes all the difference.”

Hermione couldn’t reply for a moment: she was too busy rubbing her temples as the alcohol rapidly metabolized inside her. She always had the _worst_ hangovers, and this was barely any different. A miserable, ill feeling sped through her with all the force of a runaway train, and she peeked up at him through a cracked eyelid.

“Okay,” she croaked. “Why did I need to be sober again?”

“Because,” Fred replied seriously, “I’ve been waiting years to have this conversation and I would _love_ for us both to remember it.” He took the vial from her hand and replaced it with his thumb, which pressed into the center of her palm.

Hermione’s heart jumped into her throat. “You _what?_ ”

She knew he wasn’t joking; he couldn’t be. His expression was intensely sober, in more than one way. His eyes, bottle-brown and luminous in the light of the kitchen, seemed affixed to hers. Everything in her said that this wasn’t a prank—that she could trust this earnestness—and she wondered when she’d started to admit that as a possibility.

That maybe everything _wasn’t_ a joke with him. Not all the time.

It was unbelievably frightening.

“I can see that you’re panicking. But just—hear me out.” He sucked in a breath, eyes dropping to their connected hands, and then he looked back at her with unwavering determination. His explanation was clear, concise.

A kiss.

One second, air and empty space. And then the next, everything.

Being on the outside of this situation upwards of twenty times hadn’t prepared her—whatsoever—for what it was _actually_ like. To have her face in his hands, and to be leaning upwards and inwards, so that she might get closer. She was almost surprised at how different it felt, to have him looming over _her_ , and to feel all that restless energy poured out into _her._

She didn't know what to do with all of that. Or what to do about her heart, which rioted in her chest. Or what to do with her hands—but then, they had minds of their own, making their slow and stealthy way past his wrists, gripping his arms, pulling him subtly down and closer.

His lips parted on a breath, and she whispered, "I thought we were meant to be talking."

"We are," he replied, and the shape of the words brushed his lips against hers. "Can't you hear? I'm making _loads_ of sense. You're _trembling_ at my excellent reasoning."

She _was_ trembling, in fact, though that was at least partly the hangover, and mostly pure _shock_. She gripped his arms more tightly, and his thumb stroked the apple of her cheek, and she couldn’t _take_ the unearned tenderness of it. "Fred, tell me what’s going on."

For a moment, the working of his jaw caught the whole of her attention. And then he said, "You said, 'no.' That's why it was never you. Because—I asked, and you weren't interested."

Hermione's brain took a brief leave of absence, in which she struggled to come up with a reply.

"No," she finally contradicted. It wasn't eloquent, but it got the point across. _No._

But Fred wasn't the sort of person that simple contradictions could _work_ upon. He came back with an equally emphatic, "Yes, actually. You expressed a definite lack of interest, and I didn't want to make things uncomfortable."

This was an impossible development. Hermione searched her memory and came up short—when had he ever expressed interest in _her?_ She frowned at him. "No, you didn't," she insisted. "Never seriously, anyway."

" _Hermione_." His eyes flicked to the ceiling as if seeking aid from a divine power. She felt a buzzing in her limbs at the sound of her name. "I was _always_ serious, when it came to you."

Hermione didn't—couldn't—reply.

His hands released her face, and the cool air felt sharp against her flushed cheeks. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stared down at her with a conflicted expression. "Sweet Circe, Angelina was right. You don’t know. _Hermione,_ ” and he _had_ to stop saying her name like that, or she was going to black out, “it _wasn't_ a joke."

She managed to pull herself out of her stupor long enough to be confused all over again? What did _Angelina_ have to do with this?

"Yes, it was!" She stepped back, and her hip bumped the corner of the kitchen table. Bracing herself with one hand, the other pointed at him accusingly. "You were—you were _flaunting_ the fact that you could just—throw a dart in any direction and hit someone who would shag you!"

"Well, that seems a bit excessive—"

"You _negotiated_ with me! In the same conversation!" She insisted. There was _no way_ she was wrong about this. "About not pulling girls in my dorm."

He was pinching his nose between his fingers now—a gesture she'd never seen from him before. "Yes, and didn't you think that was _odd?_ That I was asking _your permission?_ "

"Of course I did!" Hermione threw her hands in the air. Her mind was racing. "But have you met yourself? You're Fred _fucking_ Weasley. Everything you do could be filed under the dictionary definition of 'odd.'"

"Well, that's just _rude,_ " he laughed.

“And I’m supposed to believe you were really—” and she reached desperately for something to say that would get across the sheer _absurdity_ of his assertion, “—that you were honestly just hanging about, waiting for me to catch on?”

“I mean,” he shrugged halfheartedly, “I obviously had other things going on. I wasn’t idly sitting by the window, waiting for your owl or something. But… sort of, yeah.”

_This is not happening._ "Fred," she said, voice carefully level.

He smiled immediately at the sound of his name, and once again, the force of his shifting moods made her slightly dizzy. "Yes?”

It seemed she was doomed to be perpetually off-balance in his presence.

"I'm struggling to understand how we—" and she gestured rapidly back and forth between their two bodies, hands a blur, "—ended up here!"

“In Mum’s kitchen?” The pretend innocence was really doing a number on her sanity.

" _No,_ " she burst out before pursing her lips. "And— _yes._ I don't understand how we got from… from me wiping somebody else's lipstick off your face at the Leaky—"

Fred rolled his eyes. "Oh, that was Lavender. She came at me, thinking I was Ron. I mean, she had to be _completely_ bladdered, since I’m about a foot taller than he is."

"Fine, but that still doesn't explain how we got to—to you—to _this_ —"

She was beginning to think she hadn't entirely knocked the hangover. But that was what you got when you started adding unnecessary ingredients— _like peppermint oil!_ —all willy-nilly to a delicate potion. Her headache was creeping back in at the edges, and it made her sort of sputter, "I mean, I just—I _cannot_ believe this."

"Hang on, _why_ are we arguing?" Fred asked, and though he seemed to be asking himself, she couldn’t help but answer.

"Because," Hermione cried, "there's just no _possible_ way that we actually fancy each other and have just been _avoiding_ it for five years!"

And _there it was,_ out there in the open.

Fred was perfectly still. Unnaturally so.

"You fancy me?" And he was smirking, higher on one side, dimpling softly in a way that drew her eye to his mouth.

And then _she_ was nodding, and it felt like her heart had leapt back up into her throat in a desperate bid for escape, as if doing so could drive her closer to the object of its interest.

"Despite my better judgement," she managed.

Watching his face change—watching an expression dawn that she'd never seen before, _never,_ and it was like the first time she'd seen wizarding photos and how they moved, and she'd really _believed,_ then, in magic—it did away with what was left of Hermione's nerves. Shredded them entirely. It left her feeling oddly raw, and impossibly daring, because he seemed _genuinely_ amazed.

Thrilled, in fact, like he'd just been presented with the world's biggest supply of prank sweets, or like he’d just pulled something incredible off. Which, in a sense, he had.

"I think it's possible that we're both very, _very_ stupid," he said, smile going so wide that it eclipsed absolutely everything.

But Hermione had to agree.

"Do you still have that Floo powder tucked away somewhere?" she asked, locking her knees and forcing her voice to come out levelly.

He nodded, eyes on her with a keen attention that she'd often noticed before, and never quite understood.

But she did now. He _wanted_ her.

She had to push out her words on a thin supply of air. "Can you get it?"

His reply was to extend his hand in the direction of the door. " _Accio_ stash of super secret Floo powder,” he said with a wink. There was a distant clatter, a faint thump, and then the whizzing sound of something flying through the air. The little blue bag, crushed velvet and worn-looking, soared into his wide, open palm.

Her cheeks began to heat. "Showoff."

"Gets you hot, though," he said, rather smugly.

Unfortunately, he was right. "I _loathe_ you. Now, give me the Floo powder." She extended her hand, palm up, and waited.

He approached her—crowding her again, like she'd seen dozens of times. But to be the object of it was to be drunk. Undivided attention wasn’t something he knew how to offer most things, most people, but _she_ had it. And still, he didn't drop the bag into her hand: he hesitated, left it hovering over her open palm, like he couldn't quite make up his mind about whether he trusted her not to run.

But where else would she go? Everything she wanted was here.

After a long moment, he said, "Why do you need it?"

A smile curved over Hermione's lips, sudden and uncontrollable, which didn’t prevent her trying to bite down on it. The way his eyes dropped to her mouth stole her breath.

"Because," she explained, "I need to do the... what was it? The most ridiculous—" and she extended her hand further, allowing it to land at the curve of his neck, which was overheated and pink, "—the most depraved—" and she rose onto the tips of her toes, allowing the space between them to fall away as she softly said, "—the most _debauched_ thing I can think of."

In the second before her lips touched his, he smirked. "Brilliant."


	18. The first time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there's no earthly reason why they shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, guys! the long-awaited final chapter. but i'll save the sap for the end notes. enjoy!

So, Fred was a _very_ good kisser.

She might’ve suspected as much, after all the evidence she’d seen of other people enjoying his talents. But she hadn’t expected _herself_ to be so completely swept away by it the way she was, hadn’t imagined being so thoroughly entangled in him that they’d stumble out of the Floo and into his flat without so much as an inch lost or a moment of thought spared. Her arms were fixed around his neck, and his around her waist, and everything was a heady fog atop a drumbeat of _finally, finally, finally._

She’d already stated her intent: depravity, and she had high hopes as far as the debauchery. But her inexperience was a bit of a hindrance when it came to imagining what _specifically_ she wanted to happen between them. Aside from some simple academic resources and her own personal exploration, he’d been the one to provide her education on that front.

An education which, in hindsight, had some blank spots.

And that—the realization that he’d have to, at the very least, give her some guidance, because she was _utterly_ lost in the weeds—was what finally broke her mouth from his, panting for breath.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she warned. Her words were met with a parody of a respectful nod and dancing eyes. _Good enough._ “Obviously, I’ve never done this before—”

“Not so obvious, actually,” Fred interrupted. “I think you’re doing brilliantly.”

Hermione would’ve flushed at even the _hint_ of a compliment in regards to her snogging ability, but as it was, she felt redder than the hat of a Leaping Toadstool. She shook off the overwhelming urge to hide her face and went boldly on. “The fact of the matter is that _you_ know what you’re doing and _I_ don’t, which means you’re going to have to—”

Kiss her more, apparently, was the answer.

In a smooth, swift movement, he bowed his head to press his lips to hers, hushing her back into a contented, compliant silence before—without warning—sweeping her off of her feet, hands braced against the backs of her thighs. Suddenly, she was weightless, and his warm, callused hands curled around the sensitive skin near the hem of her knickers.

Hermione squeaked as her legs scrambled for purchase around his hips, but her protests were met with more kisses. Hard and thorough ones, tasting of Sugar Quills and laughter. But she still had the wherewithal to mumble, “That’s just not fair.”

His smile was soft against her mouth, and she kissed his top lip and then his bottom one before he answered, “It’s because the laws of physics don’t apply to shagging couples.” _Apparently not._ “Also, all the Quidditch.”

“I’ve always liked Quidditch.”

“ _Liar._ ”

She giggled as he carried her effortlessly through the room, navigating around the sofa even though her hair had fallen in a tangled curtain around their faces. It obscured anything else that might've existed outside their own little world, and only his familiarity with the flat kept them from tripping up into a wall or something equally devastating. He did knock her knee once, but that seemed less important.

Because she was lost in the way his jaw rested perfectly in the curve of her palm, prickled with stubble, scraping at her tender skin in a way that made her shiver until her laughter died. It all dried up in her throat, and her heart was back to beating a muffled tattoo against her ribs, where he could surely feel it in his own chest.

It seemed impossible that she could feel this much, after all this time of trying _not_ to feel it, and still have room for air. Every breath he managed to steal, every time his fingers flexed against the soft crease of her thighs, she felt a little more like she was drowning with no desire to surface. And the only thing she could really be sure of was that she wanted him to feel it—that drowning, that _want_ —too.

She earned her reward when her tongue bravely darted out to tangle with his, and he—

He did it. The sound.

Dragged forth, low and rumbling, like a hum but different. Still so ragged. A sound she’d heard a dozen times if she’d heard it once, only it sounded different this close. She could almost pinpoint the place in his chest where the sound originated, almost _feel_ it buzzing through her own body.

And now it was for _her_. It belonged to her—she could hold it in her mouth like a sweet, let it melt on her tongue. Hermione’s stomach swooped with a possessive pride.

Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as the air changed around them and they entered a different room: dimmer, smelling more strongly of what she’d come to associate with Fred—sugar, gunpowder, grass. The sense memory closed around her like a curtain as he set her softly atop his bed, breaking their kiss.

Without the immediacy of his mouth on hers, she could attempt to make note of her surroundings: his bedroom was smallish, with bare, whitewashed walls—nothing like she would’ve expected. One wall was dominated by a sort of chest-high desk, which looked as if it was meant to be stood in front of. It was easy to imagine him there, working. Pacing, chewing his quills, writing down ideas, looking out the window on the adjoining wall, into the bustling center street of Diagon Alley.

And then, there was the bed. The object which had drawn them to this room as if under the Imperius. The quilt beneath her hands was so _soft._ It looked like one of Molly's creations, and she buried her fingers in the sturdy, well-worn fabric, taking strength from it as her heart gave a sudden, involuntary lurch.

Fred had dropped into a crouch in front of her, reaching to help her remove her heels. Hermione flinched back, not from any excess of pressure—but from his purposeful gentleness. His fingers, long enough to wrap entirely around her bare ankle, were moving so slowly, with an air of such concentration. It was an undemanding touch, but that made it all the more stunning.

This was real, she was suddenly reminded. This was happening.

Thoughts raced through her head, chasing one another down in an effort to catastrophize most efficiently: she didn’t know anything about this, all the reading in the world couldn’t prepare her for more than just the strict mechanics of sex, and what if she turned out to be _bad_ at it, and he’d been waiting all these years for something that would just be _disappointing,_ and—finally, in a froth of frustration—she wondered how it was possible that she had fought in a bloody war, survived on nothing but her wits and magic for months, only to be absolutely _losing_ it in Fred Weasley’s bedroom.

He looked up at her in his usual inquisitive sort of way, still holding her foot. “You’re panicking again,” he said matter-of-factly. She wondered if it was a deliberate move, putting his head lower than hers, rather than doing his usual looming. If it was an effort at facilitating her comfort. The gesture made her heart thump unevenly. “Why?”

“I already said,” Hermione answered, sounding strangled. The strap of her heel came loose, and the shoe fell away. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t _do_ this, Fred.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. Both hands shifted to her other leg, where gooseflesh prickled at his touch. “So, we don’t have to do anything, then.” He set about removing her remaining shoe, shrugging carelessly even as his fingers cradled her ankle.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Was he being deliberately obtuse? _Probably._ “But I want to. Obviously. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s good.” He was grinning now, as her other heel fell away with a _thunk._ “Glad we’re on the same page about that, at least, because I was promised debauchery and I absolutely intend to have it.” His fingers slipped a little higher on her calf—not anywhere near the hem of her dress like he'd been before.

It wasn’t an indecent touch at all. But it was enough to alert her brain, and to summon a little flutter interest in her belly. His hand looked so _large_ , resting there on her leg, and his thumb was painting a soft circle into the tight muscle. She knew that he had the capacity to do much more with it, if only she asked.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’m _also_ completely unsure of—” and his other hand gestured in a futile sort of way, “—how to do this?”

“No.” Hermione scoffed, and Fred snorted. “I also wouldn’t believe you. I’ve seen you shagging a bloke in a bath while carrying on a coherent conversation. I’m pretty sure you can manage some basic horizontal sex in a bed.”

“That’s what you want, then?” His head tilted, hair falling over his brow. She no longer had the ability to resist brushing it away with her shaking hand. It was thick, but pliant—nothing like her own hair, and it obeyed when she tucked it back over his forehead, which crumpled in thought. “Because I just want to do what you want. That’s what I’m, personally, worried about: _you._ ” He leaned into her touch, bringing both of his hands to rest on her knees, and Hermione wanted to marvel at the power she seemed to exert without even knowing it. A power that she’d apparently always held over one of the bravest, funniest, maddest people she’d ever known.

It was humbling. There was no other word.

She bit down on her bottom lip, which was still swollen from snogging. And something in her settled. The radiant warmth from his hands traveled up her thighs.

“Kiss me, please,” she said faintly, running her fingers along the place where his jaw met his neck. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

And then he stretched upwards and obeyed.

From there, it started to feel easier.

He kissed her into the mattress, hanging over her like the bough of an enormous tree. His hands moved maddeningly over the rungs of her ribs, cupping her through her bodice, making her whine in ways that might’ve been embarrassing, only she didn’t have the ability to care.

She’d decided that the next step was unbuttoning his shirt, though her efforts were frequently interrupted with little kisses and nips and muffled hums that made her wonder how he ever _didn’t_ get caught, he was so _vocal._ And he repeatedly distracted her from her mission with the no doubt _fabulously_ bright love-bites he was leaving on her throat. It was like there was a string rooted somewhere deep in her belly, and could just pull at it on a whim, whiting out her brain and ruining her focus.

He seemed determined to slow her down, covering every inch of exposed skin with slow kisses, acting with a _precision_ that ran completely counter to what she’d expected of him. Somehow, _she_ was the one rushing, growing frustrated when the tiny buttons down his shirt bewildered her fingers, when her hands lost sense of their task and found their way back up to his face, his neck, his hair.

When he got to the buttons down the front of _her_ dress, though— _without_ her having made any significant progress—she caught his hand. “I’m not backing out,” she breathed into the room, which was suddenly still. “But you should know, I have… some scars.” The words felt too big for her tight throat, but she forced them out. “On my stomach, you know? From Dolohov’s curse.” She felt him swallow. He already knew about the one on her arm; she wore it like a badge. But the marks on her stomach were different. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to—I guess, say anything or…”

He pulled just slightly away from her, enough to look down at her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Granger,” he rasped, “a wall fell on me. A whole bloody _wall._ ” He kissed her clavicle softly. Reverently, almost. And then he rolled off of her. Her body instantly protested the loss of heat, of contact—but he was taking her hand in his, slipping both of them into the shelter of his shirt. His skin was even warmer there, over his beating heart. “I have them, too.”

And she knew he did; she could feel the little ripples. The places where, if she was looking at his chest directly, she’d no doubt see faint pink puckers, places where the skin was taut and shiny and would never change, not with sun or age. She’d seen them still-forming, during the healing process, when she changed his bandages.

The scars were like marks on a map, revealing the spots where carefully-applied magic had stitched him back together. Imperfect, but whole.

His scars didn’t look like hers, but it didn’t matter. In this way, they were the same.

With a final press of his hand over hers, he released her, and—after a steadying breath—she pulled her hand back to begin deliberately, slowly unbuttoning the bodice of her dress. Her hands managed not to tremble and her head listed to the side, watching him as he watched her. The warmth of his gaze brought a fresh blush to her cheeks.

Which didn’t go unnoticed. He was smirking. _Bastard._

She nodded at his own chest and half-buttoned state, managing a huffy, “I’m not doing this alone.”

“No,” he agreed, working a button through a hole. His smirk solidified, dangerous and tempting at once. “You definitely are not.” His obvious interest sparked her confidence. She could do this.

She would.

She _wanted_ to.

Hermione had to sit up to remove the garment in its entirety, letting the straps slide down over her bare shoulders. She momentarily lifted her hips, to push the bright dress the rest of the way off, letting it puddle on the floor. She usually wasn’t so untidy, but there was a certain decadence to leaving it there, knowing it would be unmistakably rumpled come morning.

_Morning._

They hadn’t actually discussed sleeping arrangements, she realized. Would he want her to stay, after? Would _she_ want to stay?

She wasn’t given the opportunity to think about it much, because his hands were on her, abandoning his own task in favor of mapping out her body, eyes full of wonder. Each touch seemed to ignite on contact, her lips falling open on sighs, if only from the sheer _novelty_ of being touched there by someone other than herself.

It couldn’t be said that he was methodical—more that he was curious, and so he lingered oddly in certain places, as if fascinated. He brushed over the violent purple scarring on her stomach with a gentle, comforting touch and a solemn look before moving upwards, skating between her breasts with the side of his thumb.

“That feels nice,” she said in breathless realization. She supposed that she ought to feel more self-conscious, but then he chuckled and lowered his head to follow the trail his thumb had blazed, and she didn’t feel anything at all except a quickening in her belly, a tensing of rarely-used muscles.

Suddenly, what they were doing began to feel—she smiled to herself—very debauched indeed. It stood to reason that he was good with his mouth in _general_ and not specifically at kissing.

Which he demonstrated. Thoroughly.

By the time he’d removed what was left of her clothes and joined her himself in her state of undress, Hermione was relaxed like she couldn’t ever remember being before. Her muscles were pliant where he had kissed and sucked and massaged away tension. And yet, there was a knot of tension—an ache, low in her belly, that constantly reminded her of what was yet to come.

She could feel it in him, too: the way his stomach tensed when it brushed hers, his arms taut when he rolled to hover above her. He seemed to be concentrating on something; something more than making her boneless beneath him, which he was managing quite well. Even though she wasn’t quite sure how to touch him—what was normal and not normal in these circumstances—he looked almost as wrecked as she felt, beads of sweat dotting his forehead.

When his lips released the tip of her breast with a wet pop, he peered up at her with a look she couldn’t fathom.

Hermione flushed. "What?"

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” His mouth hitched to one side, but it wasn't precisely a _happy_ smile he gave her. "I'm still sort of waiting for you to run screaming." When she opened her mouth—presumably to protest, or to _plead_ with him, demand that he keep going, because she was going to combust and they could talk _later_ —he cut her off. "I know that you’ve caught me in a lot of… compromising positions, and that you haven't always approved of my choices, even if you've always… I guess, understood."

Why were they talking about this _now?_ Hermione's stomach dipped. And what was he getting at? It almost seemed like he was trying to warn her off, and they were _so_ far beyond that.

"But I hope you know," he carried on valiantly, despite how exposed he _obviously_ felt, "that I _am_ capable of controlling myself."

Her confusion must've been obvious, because his eyebrow rose sardonically and he clarified, "I can just—love one person." The way his voice wobbled around the word _love_ made her dizzy, like she was standing at the edge of a cliff. "It's not like I—like I _need_ variety or anything. It was always just fun, just something I wanted to do. It wasn't a compulsion."

She couldn't help but notice how he spoke of his sexual history: firmly in the past. He was making an obvious attempt at closing one chapter and starting another entirely. One which, it seemed, he wanted her to be part of.

That prospect shaped her answer into something soft. "You don't have to explain yourself, Fred."

But he shook his head. "Yeah, I do. It's been a problem before. Not—not anything big," and now he was looking well and truly antsy, a violent red blush creeping up his chest. "And I know—the thing with Ange…" _Ah._ Even though it had been _months_ since she’d run out of Ron and Lavender’s engagement party, the memory still seemed to sting them both. "That was bad. But I don't want you to think—I just—Merlin." He laughed, face falling forward into the curve of her breast, where his warm breath tickled her softly, puckering the skin. "I'm making a big deal out of nothing, aren't I?"

"It's not nothing," she answered readily, combing her fingers through his hair. _Not if it worries you._ "But I trust you."

It wasn't until she said it that she knew it was true. He was right; she hadn't always approved, but she did understand. He was rash, and too clever by half, and he seemed to care a great deal about a great many people. And somehow, he had found a way under her skin, for all those reasons and more. Some of which she hadn’t exactly worked out yet.

“Thank you,” he whispered. And then, the edges of his teeth scraped over her sensitive nerve endings. Hermione shivered out of her musings. He was looking up from under his lashes: waiting, it seemed, for her permission to proceed.

A grin pulled at her cheeks. "I don't mean to be crass, but I'd really like you to shag me. Please," she added, as politely as she could manage with his tongue tracing shapes on her skin, little strokes, like he was painting the runes of some excessively complicated spell. Her hands tightened in his hair, holding him to her.

He hummed. Low, warm, familiar. It buzzed through her chest, down into her being, and her back arched. " _Please,_ " she repeated, unembarrassed at the urgency colouring her voice.

She knew what she wanted, and she wanted—more than anything—for it to finally be _them._ Together.

And it was.

Though, it also turned out that they weren’t _entirely_ alone.

The next morning, when Hermione stumbled out to the hall in search of the loo, wearing Fred’s old Quidditch jersey and a smile, she looked this way and that, only to be met with the knowing gazes of George and Angelina. They both had cups of coffee and wide grins on their faces, taking in her sweaty hair and obvious glow as they leaned casually against the countertop, plainly in the midst of breakfast preparations.

The young witch began to flush, mouth falling open as she tried to generate an explanation. Anything that would make it _less_ awkward than standing in front of them, knickerless.

“Hermione, love, d’you want to—”

Fred’s voice sounded just behind her as he stepped out of the doorway— _gods,_ and he was just in his pants, she could feel it as he bumped into her stock-still body. Before she could stumble forward, he caught her in his arms, pulling her back against his warm chest, slightly tacky with sweat. The sensation—one with which she was still becoming familiar, one that still managed to take her breath away, and would for a long, _long_ time—warmed her cheeks, and she knew she must be flushing the brightest pink as he tucked his chin atop her head, heedless of her chaotic curls.

“Morning, Ange, George,” he greeted. “Sleep well?” Even without looking at him, she could tell he must be smirking just _wickedly._

A smirk which Angelina returned, her dark eyes glinting with humor. “Honestly, Hermione,” she teased, “ _Quietus_ is a second-year charm.”

To which Hermione had no reply.

Mercifully, nothing more was said about it. But, of course, that was only because it was the _first_ time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for coming along with me on this little adventure! i can't tell you how wonderful it was to read your comments and enthusiasm and concerns, or what it meant to me. when my grandmother passed and i had to spend hours and hours in an almost empty church, i would go hide out and re-read some of your replies just to bring myself a little joy. and when i got back home, i had a reason to get out of bed the next morning and start trying to write again. you lot made me laugh when i didn't feel like laughing at all, and you motivated me more than i can say.
> 
> maybe it's silly to take so much comfort from something so small. but that's what fic has always been about for me... finding comfort in the little things, and in community. i hope this story has brought you a little bit of that in this very difficult time. and i hope that you all stay safe and healthy and sane. if you ever want to come find me and ramble about fremione (or, you know, anything else!), feel free. i'm on tumblr!
> 
> anyway, hope to see y'all for the next one, because i've got a few (ie. _a lot_ ) more fremione fics in me yet.

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this fic is taken from part of rae armantrout's poem, "eden":
> 
>  _About_ can mean near  
> or nearly.
> 
> A book can be about something
> 
> or I can be about  
> to do a thing  
> and then refrain.
> 
> To refrain is to stop yourself.
> 
> A refrain  
> is a repeated phrase.


End file.
